That Froghurt Guy
by CyborgWithGreatHair
Summary: Mab is on a winding, scary and dangerous path to discovering exactly what her parents are like, but will it all work out for the best? Can anyone find the help they need in Trenton? And what exactly does this have to do with Steph? ...And frozen yoghurt?
1. Chapter 1

_Hey! Thanks for checking out my new story! I have high hopes for this one. Lots of angst and suspense. I hope it intrigues you. Read and review to find out more._

_Standard Disclaimers apply: I do not own the Plum-verse now the characters whome inhabit it (except those I've implanted). I am not making money from this story._

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><p><em><strong>That Froghurt Guy<strong>_

Chapter 1

_Definitely __not __what __I __would __have __chosen, __but __it__'__s __better __than __nothing,_I thought surveying the street as Mom made her way toward the gihugic mystery building across the road, her brown curls bouncing energetically with every step she took. For a moment I wondered if my hair did that when I walked, but cast it the thought aside as I began my preparations. I grabbed a towel from the back seat, my half empty slurpee from the cup holder, and reached out to toss them on the bonnet of the car before digging my iPod out of my purse. Once I had it was wailing my Gothic-Doom playlist through the car speakers, I slipped from the passenger seat and spread the towel on the hood of the car. Having set up my makeshift tanning bed, I was reaching for the hem of my black lace over shirt when a familiar stern voice cut across my music.

"Don't you dare even _think_ about disrobing in public, Amabel!" my mother yelled.

That's me, BTW and FYI. Amabel. Like Annabelle, but with an M. Trust me, I totes didn't choose it. Most of the time I don't even like it. So you can call me Mab. I mean it. Mab of get your face chewed off.

I rolled my eyes and finished pulling the shirt over my head. "Relax, Mom," I called back to her, gesturing to my camisole. "I'm not exposed."

She shook her head and continued on her way, leaving me to wonder, not for the first time, about this stupid trip. Really, who hijacks their daughter's summer vacation but refuses to tell her where she is being taken or why?

My mother. That's who.

Two days ago I had just arrived home from my last day of school for the year to find two suitcases stuffed into the back of Mom's car and the woman herself waiting for me on the front porch. "Go inside and get changed," she told me, barely able to stand still. "We're going on a road trip."

I'd tried to ask her where and even complain a little about having my vacation reefed out from under me, but she'd simply pushed me inside with the instruction to grab anything I may want or need that she hadn't thought of. So I did as I was told and ten minutes later we were on the road heading for who knows where.

I was rather alarmed by the entire ordeal because a) I was supposed to be heading to the beach with my friends the next day, and b) this was the most spontaneous thing Mom had ever done. She's a planner by nature and doesn't do anything until she's double checked the route to take, printed out approximate checkpoints as a guide and (if necessary) made accommodation arrangements. I shudder to think what I might have turned out like if it weren't for Dad and his random adventures.

So here we were, two days and minimal sleep later, in some random street somewhere in – of all places – Trenton, New Jersey. Why? Still no idea, but Mom apparently had an appointment in Mystery Building that would take 'upwards of half an hour', so I figure I may as well catch some rays in the mean time.

I leaned back, slipping the straps of my bra and top off my arms to avoid an unsightly tan line and was just getting comfortable when my cell registered a text. I pulled it out and groaned in jealousy. It was a pic of Carlz and Soph at the beach. Both were grinning widely, giving a thumbs up. And no wonder. When I looked to the background I noticed a mostly naked, Adonis of a male towelling off. Of course they couldn't resist the temptation to rub it in.

I swiped and tapped my way out of messages and into the camera app. Then, thinking of my tan once more, I rolled the bottom of my camisole up to under my breasts before leaning back on one elbow, pulling an unimpressed face and snapping a selfie of me and my urban tanning bed. After sending off, I got settled, belting out the guitar interludes and singing along with the haunting melodies.

My eye were closed not much later as I noisily slurped up the last of my new melted beverage.

"You should probably turn over, Miss," someone said from directly beside me, interrupting the perfect silence between songs. I was so startled that I nearly fell off the car. Sitting up a little so I could see him, I nearly fell off the car again. He was _huge__ – _like, body-builder huge – and gazing down at me. From what I could see of him, he was dressed entirely in black. Black cargos. Black, uber tight tee. Can we say drool check?

"What?" I uttered in that oh-so-eloquent way I have when confronted with a hot guy.

"You should turn over so you don't burn," he explained. "My ex says she has to turn every three minutes to avoid an uneven tan."

I stared at his gorgeous green eyes as he spoke, so I was only vaguely aware of what he actually said, but I'm pretty sure I would have been just as confused if I was listening properly. "Huh..." I murmured. It was somewhere between an _'__is __that __so?__' _and a _'__what?__'_; the kind of utterings that most adults just brush off. Lucky for me, though, my buff stranger spoke teenager.

"You've been here for approximately seven and half minutes," I was informed. "I thought you might like to turn over so you don't burn. Unfortunately, red skin is only attractive as a candy."

Giving him a curious look, I began to turn over, just to satisfy him, but paused to check my phone when it bleeped another text notification at me.

_At least ur getting sum sun :)._

I read the message quickly and a small smirk crept onto my face as an idea hit.

"Do you mind if I take a photo with you?" I asked Mr. Tall, Dark and Concerned for my Tan. His brows drew together slightly, but he gave a slight nod. I rolled my eyes. "Was that a 'yes you can take the picture' or a 'yes, I mind if you take the picture'?"

"You can take it," he confirmed.

"Awesome," I commented, flashing him my award winning grin and adjusting my sunglasses. "Lean over here a little, would you?" He did as instructed and I snapped a couple (just to be on the safe side), immediately sending one off to Soph and Carls with the caption _'__Ur __rite. __Things __Rnt __all __bad.__'_ "Thanks!" I told the guy, grinning back up at him as the message jetted off to the beach without me.

"Who did you send them to?" he asked. He had a weird almost expression on his face and I wasn't sure if he was just being curious, or if he was being interrogation-y. His tone was cryptic and his face was harder to read than Josephine's handwriting when she was on a caffeine high, but he totes looked like he'd be at home in an interrogation chamber. _Scary!_

Flipping my hair in what I hoped was a nonchalant gesture, I replied coolly, "Just my friends. I was supposed to go to the beach with them this vacay, but Mom dragged me out here instead."

He made a show of glancing quickly up and down the street and even in the back of the car. "Where is she now?"

I rolled my eyes again. "In that building over there." I pointed vaguely in the direction of Mystery Building and all its shininess. "In some appointment. Knowing my luck, it's work related."

"You don't know for sure?"

"Nope!" I said with fake enthusiasm. "I have absolutely zilch information on this trip. Bogus vacay much?"

"Perhaps this is merely an errand she has to run on your way to Atlantic City," he suggested, eyeballing the suitcases again.

"Live in hope," I mumbled, finally finishing my turkey-esque rotation and resting my head on my arms. "Thanks for the tip, Mysterious Stranger, but I should be getting back to it."

With another slight nod, he set a bottle of SPF 30+ on the bonnet beside me before walking back across the street. Of course this gave me the perfect view of a very well toned backside. YUM! I once again had to check for drool as he disappeared from my line of vision.

I set the timer on my phone to remind me to turn over in five minutes – three just seemed too soon – and was about to set it down when it started going nuts in my hand.

"You're on with Mab," I greeted.

"OH. EM. GEEE!" Calz squealed in my ear. "That is some serious dude-age you picked up! Spill! Spare no deets!" In the background, Soph said something I couldn't quite make out, which prompted Carlz to say, "Oh, you're right. Hang while I conference Soph in? It's too noisy to speaker you."

"I'll be here," I confirmed and waited until I had both their ears before dishing my goss. As always they were the perfect audience. They oh'd and ah'd in all the right places and sighed dreamily right along with me as I described my mystery advisor.

*o*

"Well?" I prompted my mother an hour later as she reefed my iPod from the jack, causing a sudden pressing silence to tickle my skin, and flung her handbag into the back seat. I hopped off the bonnet, rolled the towel up and readjusted my clothing, slipping the lace over shirt over my head before sliding into the passenger seat. "How'd it go?"

"Fine," she said tersely, and I could see the tension riddled throughout her body. My guess would be that she was anything but fine, but instead of explaining, she surprised me by asking, "What do you want to do for the rest of the day?"

I grinned widely as she put the car in gear and pulled from the curb. "You mean you didn't plan every single second of this trip?" I teased.

Thankfully, this got her to relax, if only a little. She eased her white-knuckled, death grip on the steering wheel and rolled her shoulders. "Course not," she assured me. "This is vacation time."

_But __when __has __that __ever __stopped __you __trying?_ I thought idly to myself. "Seems a bit like one of Dad's random adventures to me," I informed her, then took on a TV voice over type voice as I did my version of one of Dad's spiels. "Clouded with mystery, the journey begins. Just two women, a car and the road. Where will they end up? What will they discover there? Will they be home in time for dinner?"

She gave a nervous chuckle at that, and I felt a little sorry for her. She always got anxious when things weren't completely planned. "I'm pretty sure we won't be home for dinner, Amabel. At least not tonight."

I rolled my eyes at her but had to laugh as well. "I know, Mom, but Dad always added one completely ridiculous one on the end."

Sighing and shaking her head, she agreed. There was a pause before she said, "I'm glad you caught your father's adventure bug. I don't think you would like it end up like me."

"There's nothing wrong with being organised." I told her. "If it weren't for you we might have missed getting home from random adventures in time a lot more often than we did." I glimpsed her sad smile and knew where her thoughts were. "It's alright to miss him, Mom. You know that, right? You don't have to be strong and brave every second of the day for me anymore. I can handle it. I can be strong for you when you need it too. I'm here for you if you want to be a little vulnerable every now and then."

"You look after me so well," she said warmly, reaching over to squeeze my hand and sending a grateful smile my way. "If it weren't for you I'd probably still be a wreck."

Her words sent a warm liquid ooze into m y heart and I found myself squeezing her hand back. The last six months had been emotionally taxing on both of us, but one way or another we managed to pull each other through. "I feel the same way about you," I assured her. "You pulled me out of a dark and depressing place right when I needed it."

Smirking, she glanced over at me, running a critical eye over the purple streaks in my otherwise brown, curly hair. Her gaze snagged on what she could see of my dark eye shadow and thick eyeliner before moving on to the bat pendant on the end of my leather cord necklace, the black on black layers of my tops and the slightly torn, black short-shorts teamed with black and white converse sneakers. "Pulled you out, did I?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Must have forgotten to dip you back in the happy colour pallet."

"It's a fashion statement," I told her defensively for the zillionth time, even though I knew she was just trying to get a rise out of me. "I like the way it looks, so sue me."

"I was just teasing," she said. All the tension had now dissipated and she was back to being plain-old Mom. Maybe this vacation wouldn't be so bad after all. "So what do you want to do?" she repeated.

I took a moment to recall what the guy had said earlier before replying. "You promised me the beach this vacation. Atlantic City isn't too far from here, is it?"

Another smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Sounds perfect."

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><p><em>Thanks for reading the first chapter! I have another chapter and a half written, but I won't be posting until I know that there are people interested in findout what's going on.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_I was quite disappointed with the amount of feedback for last chapter. Over four days it managed to scrap in four reviews (one of which was my bestie whom hardly ever reviews), whereas in less than 24hours King in His Own Lunchbox pulled in five. If interest in this story doesn't increase I'll be scrapping it. Don't get me wrong, I'll probably keep writing it and sharing it with Shreek, but I won't be posting it. Hopefully this chapter intrigues you a little more._

Chapter 2

The sun beat down, bringing its heat full force as it cast a perfect halo around the latest beach-bum surfer-dude to walk past out little set up. Mom was on her back, attempting to read her new true crime novel without casting a shadow across any part of her anatomy. It was a futile endeavour dictated by the delicate balance between the distance Mom could see without the aid of her reading glasses and the angle of the early afternoon sun. Beside her, I was sitting up, reapplying my sun block and trying not to gawk at all the rippling abs on the beach around us when she finally gave up the battle. She dropped her hand, still holding the book, to her side with a muffled thud.

"I give up," she informed me, though I barely heard her over the music blaring in my ears. "Talk to me."

"Hmm?" I hmmed, removing the ear bud from one ear. It wasn't that I needed her to repeat what she'd said, but if she realised that I could, in fact, hear her over my music, it would take away my excuse to ignore her when she was telling me to do the dishes. Or take out the trash. Or clean my room.

"I can't read," she explained. "Let's talk."

I thought for a moment, handing her the sun block so that she too could reapply. "Explain to me why we're here," I requested in the most polite way I could think of. Previous mental attempts, tainted by frustration, had included words that would surely have gotten me grounded. Definitely not the best option for a vacation.

Mom surprised me by putting on her best whiney voice. "Do I _have _to?" I gave her a _look_ similar to the one she always gave me when I whined, and she sighed. "Alright, fine. It's a family matter."

_Did someone die? _was my first thought. I wasn't aware of any family that lived out here, but then its not like I know the entire family tree off by heart. "What kind of family matter?" I eventually asked, having swallowed down all the uncalled-for grief. _Wait until you have a reason to before you get all worked up_.

"A sensitive one," she said evasively. So it could have been a death. Deaths could be sensitive matters. I waited for her to explain further, but she didn't.

Starting to get a little worried, I pulled the ear bud from my other ear and set the iPod aside. I turned to face her more full and read the apprehension in her expression. "What's going on, Mom?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, screwing up her nose, and started fiddling with the links of her simple, silver chain bracelet. It was the last gift Dad had given her before he died. "This isn't the right place," she said softly, almost to herself rather than me. "Or the right time. Or-" Her hands were wringing together in her lap as her stress levels climbed. "Your father promised that when the time came he'd be the one to tell you," she explained, sounding slightly apologetic. "This isn't fair. It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Before she could start yelling to the heavens in an effort to scold my father – something she'd done several times in the months following his death – I cut in, seizing her hands and making her look me in the eye. "You don't have to tell me right this second," I told her, though I wished for once she would abandon her everything-has-to-be-planned-in-advance anxiety and just say what needed to be said. "Take some time. Calm down. Organise what you're going to say. Plan how it needs to happen." I gave her a reassuring smile. "I can wait. Just promise you'll tell me soon?"

"You're sure?" she asked hesitantly.

"I totes am," I said, grinning from ear to ear. She always got a kick out of me speaking IM, said it reminded her that I was still young and that young people were confusing.

A small smile was forming on her own lips as she replied solemnly, "IDK WTF I would do without you."

"Mom!" I exclaimed, shocked into laughter by her statement. "Do you know what you just said?"

She gave me one of _those_ looks. "You better believe I know what I just said," she informed me. "So you better start leaving out the F."

"'Kay," I giggled.

Mom didn't think she was cool or hip or anything like that, and she didn't try to be, but honestly, I think she's just about the coolest Mom there is... when she's not stressing about little insignificant details, that is. She's strict without being overbearing, and sure, she can be a little up tight, but I'm pretty sure my free spirit requires some reigning in from time to time. Plus, she's reliable, and reliability is a highly valued quality in this age of divorce and absentee parenting.

*o*

We spent another hour or so at the beach before finding a room in a nearby hotel so that we could relax and chill for the evening. I was sprawled across the double bed while Mom showered, my iPod plugged firmly into my ears as I scrolled through Facebook updates on my phone when the bed started to vibrate. It took me a moment to realise that it must be Mom's cell phone and then another while to actually locate the thing in the bottom of Mom's handbag, by which time it had stopped ringing. I set it down on the bed and was in the process of re-plugging my ears when it lit up and started vibrating again.

"Leah Hathwick's phone," I stated clearly, grimacing and gritting my teeth as I said my next line. "Amabel speaking."

"Annabelle?" a deep male voice enquired on the other end, causing me to roll me eyes. So typical that he would get my name wrong. "You're not Leah's usual assistant."

"No, sir," I agreed. "And it's Amabel. With an M."

"Oh, my apologies, Amabel," said the voice, and he actually did sound sorry. "Is Leah available?"

"She's currently indisposed, sir," I informed him, quickly squashing the urge to add, "_That's why I'm answering her phone, DUH!"_ Instead, I followed my usual script. "I could take a message?"

"I'd rather speak with her directly, if you don't mind."

Don't they all though, I thought. "I understand, sir. If you would just state your name and best contact number, I'll have Mo- uh, Leah call you back at the first opportunity.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line which, unfortunately, allowed me time to stress over the mistake I'd just made. It was an established agreement that I was never to refer to Mom as Mom unless the caller was a close friend or relative and therefore already knew of our relationship.

"You're not a temp, are you, Amabel?" the man asked, only phrasing it as a question as an afterthought.

I had to stifle a groan. He'd picked up on my mistake. If Mom found out about this I was totes screwed. Swallowing noisily, I answered, "No, sir."

"How old are you?" he enquired, sounding curious.

Oh, God. Can we say _Grounded till you're thirty?_ This conversation is definitely the beginning of the end of my life. "Sixteen, sir," I said dutifully.

"Ahh," he uttered knowingly. "So you're on work experience, then?"

I was sorely tempted to take the out he'd provided for me, to say yes and end these probing questions, but the part of me that understood the trouble it could cause prompted me to be honest. "No, sir."

"Call me Lester."

"Yes, sir," I agreed, feeling flustered.

"Lester," he repeated coaxingly.

"Yes, Mr. Lester," I amended.

His voice was warm, like he was smiling and trying not to laugh when he spoke again. "Just Lester, Amabel." There was another long pause, during which I figured I should have said something, but was too panicked to think of the right words, not to mention the lump that was forming in my throat. Eventually he both saved and doomed me by asking, "Could you tell me why you're answering your mother's phone?"

"I –." I was about to give my explanation when it finally clicked in my brain exactly what he'd said. _I was so toast_. "It is expected that I answer her phone when she can't, sir. I am to take a message and/or contact details so that she can deal with the information as she sees fit."

"Wouldn't the same result be achieved by allowing the phone to go to voice mail?" he asked, echoing my question when Mom had tasked me with the answering of her phone two years ago.

"Yes, si-."

"Lester," he reminded me firmly. "You don't have to worry, I'm not going to tell on you."

"Mom prefers to give her clients actual human interaction wherever possible," I explained, trying not to sigh.

"But you're not allowed to call her Mom?"

"No, s-." I cut myself off, flustered by all these questions and knowing that I needed to get him to just give me his contact details so I could end this horror of a conversation. "It's more professional," I explained shortly. "Would you like to leave your name and number?"

"Just get her to call Lester at Rangeman," he requested. "You have a nice evening, Amabel."

"You too, sir," I returned, but he'd already hung up. I scribbled a note to my mother on a post-it not I found in her bag and placed the phone on top of it, all the while thinking how unusual it was that I'd never heard from Rangeman before. Mom usually shares all sorts of details with me about her clients.

As my curiosity peaked, I snatched up my own phone, logging on to the Internet and quickly typing "rangeman" into the search engine.

**_Did you mean Range Management?_**

_No, Google, I did not. Just search what I told you to_. I scrolled down to the list of results – a total of three – clicking on the first one, which took me to the business information for a security company. _Security company?_ Mom's never dealt with a security before. Especially one as established as this one appeared to be. You'd think that after nearly twenty years of business, including two expansions, they wouldn't need the help of a professional organiser. They clearly knew what they were doing to have been so successful, so why contact Mom? Unless she was organising an event for them. But she usually only organised events in our local area where she knew the charities and business that would benefit from the function.

The shower turned off and I quickly got back into my sprawled position with my head dangling off the side of the bed. Mom came out a moment later, wrapped in a towel and using another to dry her hair.

"Lester from Rangeman wants you to call him back," I relayed, forcing a bored tone and lifting my head to see her. She'd stopped dead in the middle of the room at my words, staring at me in what could have been mild horror. "What?" I asked, trying for a non-caring, almost defensive tone.

"Nothing," she blustered, blinking and shaking her head. "I just wasn't expecting a call from Rangeman so soon. I caught me off guard." And then she did something I hadn't seen her do since just after Dad died. She tugged her right earlobe; a sure sign that she wasn't telling the truth.

I couldn't _not _pick her up on _that._

"What are you lying about?" I asked slowly, sitting up to look at her properly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she evaded, looking anywhere but at me.

"You just tugged your right earlobe," I told her. "That's a sure sign that you're lying. What's up?"

She dropped her hair towel to the floor and began pacing across the room, wringing her hands anxiously and avoiding my gaze.

"What is Rangeman?" I asked.

"A security company," she said automatically, confirming my research.

"Are they a client?"

She paused, glancing at me. "Yes, they are." _Tug._

"No they're not," I countered confidently. Sometimes it's like our roles are reversed; me calming her down when she got anxious or stressed, even making dinner when she was too busy and consumed by her work to do so. "If they're not a client, why are they calling you?"

"A business matter," she said, resuming her pacing and scratching her neck. _Not quite a lie_.

"But not your business?" I guessed. "They don't require aid from your business. You require aid from theirs?" Her eyes darted to me as she changed direction, but immediately slid away. I could see the wheels turning in her head as she alternately tugged her ear, scratched her neck and wrung her hands. That was as good as any verbal confirmation she'd ever given me. "Why do you need help from a security company?" I asked softly, suddenly feeling very small and vulnerable, like a child. I wrapped my arms around my knees in an attempt to comfort myself.

Hearing my voice change, she came and sat down next to me on the bed, pulling me into a slightly damp, but still reassuring hug. "Don't worry, baby," she whispered into my hair. "You're safe. Nothing's gonna harm you, Amabel. There's no need to be scared."

I looked up into her brown eyes, drinking in the comfort they always brought me. "You'd tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn't you?" I asked.

Sending me a warm smile, she tucked an errant curl behind my ear and kissed my forehead. "What do you want for dinner?"

It didn't escape my notice that she hadn't actually answered my question, but I let it slide as my stomach growled, causing both of us to chuckle. "There's a pizza place down the street," I suggested, disentangling myself from her grasp. "You get dressed. I'll go get a couple of vegetarian pizzas. We can sit on the bed and channel surf."

"That sounds nice," she agreed and retrieved her purse from her bag, handing to me. "Make sure you get drinks as well."

I paused just outside the door on my way out, listening to Mom type something into her phone. There was a moment of silence and then she was greeting Lester. I wanted so much to stand there and eavesdrop on my mother's conversation, but I really did need to get the food. There was only so long the monster that was my growling stomach would wait before it started gnawing on nearby organs. So I set off in search of the little pizza I'd spotted earlier, still wondering why we were here and what kind of business Mom could possibly have with a security company in Trenton.

"Deep thoughts?" the counter guy asked, startling me out of daze. _How long had I been standing there blankly?_

"Sorry," I mumbled, scratching my forearm. "I have a lot on my mind."

"No kidding," the well tanned blonde agreed with a smile. "What can I get for you?"

"Two vegos, a cola, and a lemonade. Take away," I recited our usual order.

"Any garlic breads of desserts?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No thanks."

He rang up my order and I paid before taking a seat on one of the stools nearby to wait. I was texting Soph and Carls when the counter guy came out and began wiping down the tables around me. He kept glancing over to me, making me self conscious.

"Is there a problem?" I asked without looking up from my phone, playing at not caring.

"I was just wondering if you were here alone," he mentioned casually.

I quirked an eyebrow in his direction. "Clearly not, you're here as well."

"Smart," he commented. "I like that." He grinned, showing perfect rows of pearly whites that seemed to glow in the surrounding tan skin. "I meant, is there someone waiting outside for you? A friend or parent?"

"It's just me," I admitted against my better instincts. "I'm staying just down the street."

"You walked up here on your own?" he asked with a weird look on his face. "How far?"

"It's a couple of blocks," I told him, utterly perplexed. It wasn't even dark yet. What kind of danger could there possibly be? "I'll be fine."

He shook his head in dismay just as my order was placed on the counter. "I'm taking my break," counter guy told the woman with a suspicious glance toward the front window of the restaurant. "I'll be back in ten."

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><p><em>Please take two seconds out of your day to review this story. Your feedback is invaluable to the author.<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the feedback. I understand you have some problems with regards to not knowing the how the characters featured relate to Steph, Ranger and the Merry Men etc. I hope this chapter quells a little bit of that concern. __Also, purely for the benefit of anyone who might IM or TXT challenged and can't be bothered looking up what the abbreviations mean, there is a list of my most commonly used abbreviations at the end of the chapter._

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><p><span>Chapter 3<span>

"You really don't have to do this," I told the guy as I picked up the pizza boxes and fumbled for the bag with the drinks in. To my frustration, he took the boxes from me and effortlessly handed me the drinks. "I could have managed by myself," I grouched.

He smirked in a knowing way. "I'm sure you could have," he agreed, clearly humouring me as he checked the till was locked before nodding toward the door. "See that man across the street?" He paused for me to glance out the plate glass window and spot the muscled beef-head-type man pretending to be interested in the newsstand across the road. "He walked up the street just behind you and when you came in here he crossed the street and has been watching you ever since. I thought maybe he was with you, but since he's not, I'm going to have to insist that I walk you to wherever you're staying."

I gulped noisily and nodded. "Yeah," I agreed. "Okay."

A smile graced his features. "I thought you'd see if my way. You're not as tough as you look."

Rolling my eyes, I opened the door for him to exit. "Looks can being deceiving," I informed him nonchalantly. "Besides, didn't your mother ever tell you not to judge a book by its cover?"

"My name's David, by the way," he said deliberately ignoring my comments.

"Mab," I reciprocated.

"Mab?" he sounded surprised. "Like the evil lady from the legend of Arthur?"

Smirking, I just raised an eyebrow. "If that's what you want to think," I said vaguely. Of course it was what I intended people to think when me and my friends chose it for my nickname.

"You're kinda cryptic, you know that?"

"It's a well known fact, yes, but thank you for pointing it out. It makes me feel good."

We laughed companionably as we walked. It was surprisingly easy to talk with him. Usually I was beyond communication when it came to cute boys. With David, though, it was like he was just some guy, like the guys in my English class. We talked, we laughed, and then we reached the hotel and paused awkwardly at the entrance.

"I think I can handle it from here," I said, reaching out to take the boxes from him. "Thanks for that."

"Not a problem," he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets. I turned to continue up to Mom, but he called me back. Standing there awkwardly holding my dinner, I stared up at him expectantly. Without saying a word he pulled a sharpie from his pocket, uncapped it and scribbled something on the top box. "Call or Facebook," he requested, then shot me an encouraging grin and dashed away before I could react.

The elevator dinged open and I stepped inside, startled by the goofy grin on my face in the reflection on the mirrored wall of the elevator. Oh, I would definitely be Facebooking him and putting his number into my phone for safe keeping. When the doors opened on my floor, I stepped out and paused for a moment, juggling my cargo until the box that David had written on was on the bottom. Couldn't have Mom seeing that too easily, now could I? Think of the overreaction!

Mom's sense of smell is astounding when it comes to junk food. I was still half the length of the hall away from our door when she flung it open and stepped out, spotting me immediately. "I knew I smelled pizza," she stated, striding toward me and relieving me of one pizza and the bag of drinks. She paused in the act of turning back toward our room and looked down at the pizza box I held. "Who's David?" she asked.

"The counter guy at the pizza place," I told her, praying I wasn't blushing. "He walked me back because there was some creepy muscle head across the street watching me. He's really nice."

She scrutinised my expression and I hoped to God that some of the goofiness had worn off during the elevator ride. "Why did he give you his number and Facebook link?" she asked suspiciously, never once moving her gaze from my eyes.

I shrugged. "So we can stay in contact, I guess."

"Did you give him your contact details?" she demanded, getting a little scary.

"No," I informed her. "Nor did he ask for them. The ball is one hundred percent in my court. Can we go inside and eat now?"

*o*

One of the most pleasurable things about summer vacation, in my opinion, is being able to sleep as late as you want and not have to worry about being anywhere in a hurry. And usually this is true. Obviously, this vacation did not adhere to the usual rules. Hence why I was awake at seven in the morning and in the process of getting ready to leave. Mom had another appointment at what I now knew to be the Rangeman Headquarters.

I was dressed in a black boho dress with a bat print frill, black leggings and cute little ballet flats (also black) and was braiding my hair back when Mom picked up her keys and handbag and started toward the door. Hastily tying off my half finished hair, I grabbed my purse, making sure I had the essentials, and followed her out.

Ten minutes later we were on our way back to Trenton for the day.

"So you've got another meeting with that Lester guy?" I asked casually, bringing up the topic for the first time since before I left to get pizza last night.

"No, this will be my first meeting with Lester," she corrected me. "Yesterday I spoke with a named Hal."

I thought about this information for a few minutes. "Sounds like you got some hoop jumping to do," I eventually commented. She set her mouth in a determined line and nodded resolutely. "I hope whatever this family matter is, is worth all this effort."

"It is," she assured me. "And I promise I'll tell you a bit about it tonight. I'm still planning how to say it."

Now it was my turn to nod as I stared out the front windscreen. "I understand," I told her, wishing she could be more spontaneous.

We were quiet for a while with only the sound of the scenery whizzing past heard over the hum of the car engine. It was pleasant, sitting in comfortable silence as the morning sun warmed my skin. Mom turned the radio to some soft rock and let it play quietly in the background as we drove. It was almost worth being up so early to spend these peaceful moments. It reminded me of when I was younger and Dad would wake me and Mom up before the sun rose on a Sunday morning, herd us into the car and just drive in one direction until the sun was up and we got hungry. Without fail, just as my stomach began to growl angrily, we'd pull into the parking lot of a McDonalds and Dad turn around in his seat to face me. "Time to throw the hungry lion a gazelle," he would say, leaning over to poke my belly as it growled again.

Speaking of hungry lions...

Mom let out a laugh, startling me out of my thoughts. "I swear that thing is a McDonalds radar," she said poking my stomach like Dad used to.

"Huh?" I muttered, looking up to see the Trent off ramp next to a sign for the golden arches.

"You can take the car and go get some while I'm in my meeting if you like," she offered, glancing at the clock. "I'd swing by the drive through now, but we're cutting it fine as it is." She paused, adding, "You don't have to wait around for me like yesterday. It's not fair to you. This is supposed to be your vacation."

"Sure," I agreed. "I might find a supermarket and get some cereal, cans of soup and two-minute noodles as well. It'd be nice to have something there so we don't have to buy take out every time we're hungry."

"Good thinking 99."

After leaving Mom at Rangeman, I drove idly around town for a while, getting the lay of the land, noting the mall and the various medical centres and emergency stations before stopping at a small grocery store. I'd paid for my purchases and was loading them into the boot of the car when my cell rang. It was Mom. Her meeting was over and she needed to be picked up.

It took me half an hour to find my way back Mom - who knew it was so easy to miss such a big shiny building? – by which time I was hungry again. It was almost noon, so I drove us back to the Cluck in a Bucket I'd found earlier with surprisingly more ease than finding the Rangeman building. Mom was less stressed than she had been yesterday, which I suppose is a good sign, but there was still tension in her shoulders as we got out of the car. I had to distract her somehow.

"So I added that David boy to Facebook this morning," I started as approached the entrance. "And was Face-stalking him while I ate my breakfast. He's pretty cute. Here, I'll find a photo for you." I was fiddling with my phone, trying to find the photo on Facebook as we stepped inside the air conditioned restaurant. Mom stopped just inside the door and, thinking she was waiting for me to show her the pic, I hastily picked a semi-decent one and held out my phone toward her. "Here it is," I said. "Isn't he just..." I trailed off, noting that she wasn't looking at the phone, nor me. Her eyes were fixed on something up near the counter. "Mom?"

She took a deep breath, wiped the shit-scared expression off her face and forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes?"

Something was very off about the way she was holding herself. She'd turned so that she was facing me and the exit, rather than the rest of the restaurant. I tucked my phone back in my pocket and scrutinised the people at the counter, trying to figure out what had her so freaked. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"I changed my mind," she said. "I don't want to eat here anymore."

I wasn't shocked to find that after I pulled her up on lying last night she was deflecting my question. She obviously didn't want me to know what was wrong. That wasn't going to stop me from finding out though. I schooled my expression into one of pleading. "Please, Mom? I've been craving it all day." And then, just to make sure she agreed to stay, I added the icing on the cake. "You said this was my vacation."

Mom's shoulders drooped at my words and she let out a sigh. "Okay," she said, sounding both defeated and apprehensive. "I'm just going to the bathroom. You go ahead and order."

As I moved to stand behind one of the lines, she made her way to the restroom, giving the counter area a wide berth. She was obviously spooked by something or someone that she'd seen over there, but I didn't recognise anyone, so I couldn't even begin to wonder what or whom it was. Everything looked normal. Slow moving, but normal.

The woman in front of me ordered and stepped to the side to wait for her meals, allowing me to step up to the cashier. The pimply guy behind the counter gave me a smile and took my order before shuffling me off to wait with the woman.

"Could they be any slower?" she asked, rubbing her round belly.

"Probably," I commented companionable, leaning against the counter and sending a quick text to Mom who still hadn't come back from the bathroom: _R U OK?_.

"It's not even lunch rush yet," the woman told me. Her curly brown hair bounced around her head as she shook her head in dismay. "Can you imagine this pace with masses of people?"

Okay, so I know that common sense says not to talk to strangers, and after the creepy stalker-esque whatever from last night, I should probably be more cautious. But she was nice. She spoke like we were friends, even though we didn't know each other. And she was pregnant. It would be rude not to talk to her.

"Masses of _hungry_ people," I corrected her. "On a limited lunch break."

Her bright blue eyes widened. "Oh! You're right! It'd be pandemonium!"

"People would be killed as they're pressed against the counters by the surging crowds behind them, then trampled on as those nearest jostle to take their place," I agreed.

"They definitely need to do something if they want to stay in business," she said. "I hear client death is bad publicity."

"I think you might be right. I'm Mab, by the way."

"Mab?" she questioned, seeming to taste my name on her lips to see if she liked it. "Like the evil lady in Arthur, right? That's a bit morbid."

I shrugged. "So is talking about death right before we're going to eat," I pointed out. "But we still did that."

She laughed at that, the sound a wonderful, joy-filled sound. It made me smile just to hear it. "Oh, honey," she giggled. "When you're me, you have to get used to talking about death and gross things all the time."

Curious, I turned to face her more fully. "Why's that?" I asked. I didn't mean to pry. Really. But since she'd mentioned it, I figured she was okay with talking about it.

"You're obviously not from around here," she informed me. "Most people know me as-."

"There you are, Bombshell!"someone called from across the restaurant.

"-the Bombshell Bounty Hunter," she finished with a quirky little smile. I looked from her face, to the man hurrying over to us, to her bulging pregnant belly, shocked. "Don't worry," she assured me, "I'm currently not practicing. The moment my husband found out I was pregnant he assigned me to desk duty with occasional visits to the bonds office to pick up files."

"You were supposed to wait at the office for me," the guy said as he reached her side. "Do you know how worried I get when you're not where you're supposed to be?"

She rolled her eyes in my direction, a kind of _see what I have to deal with?_ gesture. To the guy she said, "I was hungry, Bobby. I can't just hang around until you _deign _to turn up and escort me to lunch. I have needs. The baby has needs. And what the baby needed was a bucket of chicken a tub of gravy and a coke."

"The boss would have killed me if anything happened to you," Bobby countered.

"Nothing did happen to me," she pointed out. "I'm still in one piece. The baby is fine. Besides, I have, like, a million tracers in my purse, surely you could have tuned in to _one_ of them and realised that I wasn't at the bonds office anymore." She turned to me then and explained, "My husband is very protective. He's put all his men on a babysitting roster for me so that I'm never alone or vulnerable. He also gets a little bit cranky with them when stuff happens to me that should be preventable, like kidnappings and stuff. So when I decide to be my own person and not wait around when it's clearly not _my _fault that there was a miscommunication that left me unattended for ten minutes, the Merry Men tend to freak out."

I looked over at the guy – Bobby, she'd called him – taking in his black cargos and skin tight t-shirt, combat boots and short cropped hair. His expression was unreadable as he looked back at me. Had she really just called him _Merry?_ "Um..."

Another laugh tittered from the Bombshell Bounty Hunter as she watched me stare at her bodyguard. "Trust me," she said. "They're not as _Invasion of the Body Snatcher_ as they seem. They're quite nice." She looked over at Bobby for confirmation, who nodded dutifully before casting his gaze around the restaurant.

"I'll go find a table for you," he said.

"Us," she corrected. "Find a table for _us._" He nodded slightly and moved off, leaving the woman sighing and shaking her head. "Communication is a bit of a foreign language for them outside of the epicentre of their little play house."

"I can still hear you , Steph!" Bobby called from not far away where he was wiping down a table.

My phone went off just as our orders were placed on the counter behind me. "It was nice to meet you, Steph," I said as she picked up her tray.

"You too, Mab," she replied.

I tapped on the accept button on my phone. "Mom?" I greeted. "Are you alright? Where are you?"

"Out in the car, we'll eat at the park. Like a picnic. It'll be nice."

_Meanwhile, somewhere in the big, shiny Rangeman building_

"That her?" Ranger asked, as he entered the conference room, immediately confronted by the image of a woman with dark curly hair and brown eyes on the projector screen. If he'd merely been passing the door and glanced in he might have thought it was Steph on the big screen, but looking at her he wondered how he could possibly have that thought. The two women were completely different in facial features.

"That's her," Lester confirmed, glancing down at a piece of paper in front of him. "Leah Hathwick, of Minot, North Dakota," he read.

"Why'd she come all the way to Jersey for us? There're a million reputable security providers between here and there," Tank pointed out.

Hal made a slight gulping sound before speaking up. He wasn't used to being included in these high-tension meetings. "She mentioned the need to get a hold of Steph," he said, fortifying his blank expression as Ranger speared him with a glare. "I had Hank plant a trace on her vehicle the moment she mentioned her, boss," he assured him, successfully diverting the unwanted attention to Hank, who was sitting coolly by his side.

"Plant was successful," he reported dutifully. "There was a young girl tanning on the hood of the car. Completely oblivious to the world around her."

"Did you speak to her?" Lester asked, leaning his elbows on the table to peer across at Hank. "Did she give her name?"

"No name, just that she didn't want to be here." Laying a distance shot of the girl on the car on the table he added. "Followed the car to Atlantic City, where they're staying."

"Anything?" Tank prompted. When Hank shook his head he instructed the man to pull up their current location then turned on Lester. "You've got more?"

"Kid's name is Amabel – that's with an M. She's sixteen years old and very respectful on the phone."

The room was silent, waiting for the next piece of information to be offered. Seconds turned to a minute and a minute almost turned to two before Ranger spoke. "I want a full background on the both of them, from first baby tooth to now. Reports on my desk by 1700 today. No one mentions anything to Steph." The men nodded their understanding and rose to leave, all except for Hank.

"Get to work," Tank prompted him, giving him a shove in the arm as he passed.

"Uh, boss, you might want to take a look at this."

Tank and Ranger both peered over his shoulder at the laptop screen, slightly confused for just a moment before it dawned on them what they were looking at. The little red dot was right on top of Steph's blue one.

* * *

><p><em>The TXT and IM talk I most commonly use and could possibly appear in this story:<em>

_Totes- Totally  
>LOL- laugh out loud<br>WTF - What the F**K  
>BTW- By The Way<br>FYI- For Your Information  
>TMI- Too Much Information<br>BRB- Be Right Back  
>BBS - Be Back Soon<br>BBL- Be Back Later  
>LMAO- Laughing My Arse Off<br>DMY- Don't Mess Yourself_

_I hope this clears some things up. I didn't think it was that hard. My mum is 51 and she knows most of these._

_Anyway. Please take the time to review. Your feedback (good or bad) is invaluable._


	4. Chapter 4

_Here is chapter four of the story. Not many answers yet, probably a few more questions though. Hope you enjoy._

Chapter 4

Mom was at the small dining table, pouring over a few sheets of paper that looked like they might be forms as I exited the bathroom, securing a towel around my head turban style. She didn't look up as I crossed to my suitcase to grab out a pair of knee length yoga pants and a tank top, pulling them on over the underwear I'd put on in the bathroom after my shower. I was ignored, still, as I took a bottle of water from the bar fridge and plopped into a chair across from her at the table. I took a long sip of my water and sighed appreciatively. Still nothing. I was half tempted to deliberately spill some of the liquid on the table, just to see if I'd get a reaction, but that probably wasn't a wise choice. Whatever she was doing was obviously important.

"You know, just because you had to go interstate for this doesn't mean you had to drag me along," I said, breaking the silence. "I could have gone to the beach with Carlz and Soph for the week as planned and then stayed with Uncle Jerry if you weren't back yet." She didn't look up from her papers, but I saw her expression change subtly as I spoke. "Speaking of which," I continued. "How long are we going to be here? And do I have to come into Trenton with you every day? It's just that I feel my vacation would be better spent out here. At the beach. With the sun. The sand. The surf. The cute boys."

"You mean, David," Mom correctly, acknowledging for the first time that she'd actually been listening to me. "I'd prefer not to leave you alone in a strange place," she added, attempting to put an end to my complaints. She made a few marks on the page in front of her, frowning. "Who knows what kind of things might happen to you?"

I rolled my eyes. She hadn't verbally worried about my safety alone in the world for over a year. Why start back up again now? Had I suddenly regressed to that of an immature tween that didn't know how to yell 'rape!' when she got in trouble? No. Mom had other reasons for not wanting to leave me here alone. The ones she'd given weren't untrue, but they weren't the _whole_ truth. That realisation reminded me of the promise Mom had given me earlier today. "You said you'd explain it tonight," I reminded her.

"It's not night yet," she retorted, gesturing to the window where the late afternoon sun was still shining defiantly.

"Technicality," I spat out, starting to really get frustrated now. "Tell me now."

Mom set down her pen and finally looked up at me. "Watch your tone," she warned. "I'll tell you when I'm ready and not before."

I rolled my eyes at her not caring if it made her angry, I was sick of the lack of answers. Standing from the table once more, I grabbed my purse off the counter behind me. "I'm going for a walk to see if I can find any froghurt in this God forsaken state," I informed her. "When I get back I expect answers."

I'd made it all the way to the door before she reacted. "Froghurt?" she asked nervously, causing a sigh to slip from my lips.

"Yes," I told her. "Froghurt. It's been six months. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss it. I've avoided it this long because I know you couldn't handle having the reminder there, but I can't take it anymore. I crave it. I'm going to get some. If you want, I won't bring it back here, but I'm not going to deny myself. It doesn't seem right."

She just bobbed her head a little and said, "Be careful."

Downstairs on the street, I decided to walk and try my luck at the nearby convenience stores rather than waste petrol on a drive that might end up as a bust anyway. At least this way the only fuel I used for no good reason was my personal fuel. I paused on the sidewalk directly in front of the hotel, looked left and right and on a whim, decided on my direction. Before long I came to a small convenience store that looked like it might sell some kind of frozen something. There could be a froghurt in there somewhere. I entered quickly, relieved for the relief from the sun and it's heat.

As I gawked and walked, not paying much attention to where exactly I was walking as it turns out, I noted that the store held much the same things as convenience stores back in North Dakota sold: the essentials. I'd just turned the corner down an aisle, following my gut toward the frozen section, when I collided with another person, tipping myself off balance and almost falling on my butt. I probably would have if it weren't for the steadying hand that the other person wrapped around my elbow.

"Easy," he said. "I've got you."

"I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, regaining my feet and stepping back from my saviour. "I wasn't watching where I was going! I just-." I broke off abruptly as I flicked the hair out of my eyes and met his gaze. "David," I uttered.

He grinned easily. "Mab." Then, narrowing his eye he asked in a teasing tone, "Are you stalking my places of employment?"

My eyes widened of their own accord and I couldn't help but let out a strangled, indignant sound of no particular intelligence. "I'm pretty sure you're the one stalking me," I responded once I'd found my words again.

"No," he assured me. "Yesterday, I was working at the pizza place. You came in. Today, I'm working at the convenience store. You came in. The person who arrives last is the stalker."

I shook my head, partly in reply to his statements, partly because I couldn't believe what was happening. "What about those smart stalkers that anticipate where the stalkees are going to be and turn up ahead of time so as not to look too suspicious?"

Annoyingly, David's grin only grew as he looked down at me. "You think I'm smart?" he asked.

"Only if you're admitting to stalking me."

"I see," he said. "Would it be so bad to be stalked by me? I'd promise to leave you little notes to let you know how pretty you look when you think you're alone."

Okay, that was kinda creepy, yeah? Like, it was kinda fun until he said that, but now my skin was crawling, recalling the guy who'd followed me up the street to the pizza place yesterday. I took a subtle step back away from him, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. Yesterday I'd had him as my safeguard against my potential stalker. Today, he was my potential stalker, and the closest person was two aisles away, deep in argument with a cell phone – or possibly someone on the other end of a phone connection, but hey, you never knew. Taking another step away I put my hand in my purse, searching for the pepper spray Dad always insisted I carry around. It never hurt to be prepared.

"Too far, huh?" he asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "Sorry, it's been a long day. Is there something you were after?" Glancing at his watch he added mischievously, "I've got two minutes left of my shift, if I help you find something then I don't have to stack an extra box of tinned corn on the shelves."

I got a little more apprehensive at this comment. If he was going off shift soon that meant he could follow me out of the store and... _No, don't think about that kind of thing._ The edges of my vision had gone fuzzy as gruesome images flashed to the forefront of my brain. Blood and guts featured predominantly in all of them. They brought back memories that I thought I'd finally buried deep in the recesses of my mind never to be looked at or acknowledged again. I was finding it hard to breathe, like there were metal bands tightening over my chests, and after a moment I realised that tears were welling in my eyes. _Don't cry don't cry don't cry!_

Blinking in an effort to stem the tears, I could see the concern on David's face and realised that not only was I freaking out, I was hyperventilating. Without saying anything, David wrapped an arm around my back and gently grabbed my elbow with his other hand and lead me (read: half dragged half carried me) to the break room in the employees only area. He set me down on one of the hard plastic chairs, got me a glass of water and a tissue and stepped back as far as he could without standing between a sweaty, hairy, overweight man and the blaring television.

I don't know exactly how long I'd been there before I managed to inhale without a stabbing pain in my chest, but I was grateful for the fact that David had allowed me the space I needed.

"I'm sorry for what I said," he apologised, leaning against the nearby table, arms crossed over his chest, avoiding looking at me at all costs. "I didn't mean to freak you out."

"You had no way of knowing exactly how it would affect me," I assured him, adding, "I had no idea it would affect me like that."

"Still," he said. "Stalking isn't exactly the world's best joke topic." He removed his work apron and wadded it in his hands before tossing it toward the corner of the room. "So what were you after?"

I blame the fact that I didn't follow the turn of conversation on my recent almost hysteria. "What?"

David gave me a slight smile, dragged a chair over to about a metre away from where I sat, and straddled it backwards. "Now that I'm absolutely certain that you weren't stalking me," he started. "It occurs to me that you would have had a reason for coming into the store. What was it you're after?"

"Froghurt," I said simply, earning a confused look. Clearly he'd never heard of froghurt. It always amazed me how so many people could live without the knowledge of my favourite treat. The one that, essentially, paid for my whole existence "Frozen yoghurt?" I explained.

Turns out the convenience store didn't have any froghurt, but David knew a place on the boardwalk that did. He lead me out to his car, handed me his keys and made his way around to the passenger side. When I asked what the hell he was doing, he explained that he was trying to ease my apprehension by allowing me to drive. "No kidnapper would ever allow their victim to drive," he informed me knowingly. So he directed me toward the little frozen yoghurt bar on the boardwalk and we sat on a nearby bench eating our frozen treats and talking.

I learned that David was working two jobs these school holidays because his Mom was sick and couldn't work as much as she needed to in order to pay all the bills. I thought it was sweet that he was helping out like that, but he said that anyone else would have done the same for their mothers. Given the state of relationships between mothers and daughters I knew back in Minot, I begged to differ, but he didn't want to hear my protests. Instead, he asked me about my random craving for froghurt – because apparently people don't usually come into the store looking for a specific frozen dessert, just a need for something cold and sweet.

So I told him about my Dad and his little froghurt shop at the mall. About how when I was little he used to take me to work with him and I would sit in front of the shop at a little table offering people free samples.

"No one can resist frozen yoghurt when it's offered to you by a six year old with curly pigtails and my award winning smile," I informed him modestly. "Especially when she proclaims that is 'healfier than ice keem' and 'nummier' too."

"I'm going to have to agree with that six year old," David informed me, not quite keeping a laugh in check. "It's definitely nummy."

Just then my phone started to ring. I grimaced and gave David an apologetic look. "I should probably get this."

As I expected, it was my mother, checking to make sure I hadn't been eaten by a monster on my quest for froghurt. Okay, so she didn't actually say that, but it's essentially what it was. She was making sure I was still alive. I assured her I was fine and that I would be home soon.

After I hung up with a sigh, David stood and took my hand, pulling me to my feet as well. "I'll take you home," he suggested. "It wouldn't do to keep her waiting."

We were walking back down the street toward the car when there was an almighty BANG and I was thrust down onto the pavement. The next few moments were a haze of sound and heat and someone's hands on me urging me further away from what was happening. It wasn't until I was sat back down on another bench that I caught a glimpse of what had happened. There, right where I'd parked David's car, was a ball of flames.

"David?" I asked uncertainly. He stood just in front of me, facing the car as well. "Um... is that...?"

"Yeah," he said tensely. "That's my car." And that's when the emergency vehicles came roaring into view. "I should probably go talk to them," he said. "You stay here. Call your Mom, tell her you might be a bit later than you thought."

As he walked away, leaving me sitting there like a bump on a log, I couldn't help but think that Mom probably wouldn't react well to the commotion she'd no doubt hear in the background. Probably, it was better to just leave her in the dark for now. I was totes not in the mood for her freak out. And if she thought I'd been stranded or detained in some way she'd just offer to come and get me herself. No, it was best if I kept this on the down low for now. I'd tell her about it later when I got home, maybe.

I watched David talking to a uniformed cop, probably giving a statement of some kind. The cop was nodding and writing on his little notepad. They looked like they knew each other, making me wonder just how often David had to deal with the law. Was this part of some elaborate plan he'd devised in order to steal me away somewhere? Don't ask me how that works, my mind is completely wrecked. Maybe the cop was a partner in crime and was going to offer us a lift home and then take us to a predetermined location whereupon I will be dismembered and-

My musings were cut short as a woman about Mom's age, in a floral print sundress and sensible heels sat next to me. "That your boyfriend's car?" she asked, head gesturing toward the charred mess.

"He's not my boyfriend," I said automatically, which is better than the other thing I could have said on autopilot – _It used to be_ – that would probably give the wrong impression. David was definitely not my boyfriend. He was just a nice guy. A nice guy who's car was now destroyed, poor guy.

"But you were with him, yeah?" the woman pressed. "He was going to give you a lift home?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Where are you staying?" she asked. "I could take you home if you like."

Squelching the sudden, rising panic that tore through my chest at her words and smile I thought, _Strangers don't just sit down next to you and offer you a lift home. Even if they do like a perfectly nice housewife-y type woman. Stranger Danger had taught me better than to blindly trust any pleasant, motherly looking woman._ I tried to affect a sincere, not-at-all-scared tone as I told her, "No, that's alright. I might just call my mom to come and pick me up." And with that, I stood from the bench and made my way over to where David was still talking to cop.

"I'm gonna call my mom to pick me up," I explained. "Do you need a lift somewhere?"

"I'll catch a lift with Uncle Vic," he deflected, nodding to the cop. "You have a nice night and stay safe."

I gave him a nervous smile. "Should be much easier once I'm away from you," I teased, but somewhere deeper down, I was starting to believe the words. It was him I was with yesterday when I realised I'd been followed. It was him who joked about stalking me himself. It was him I was with when his car blew up. A few seconds later and we could have been blown up with it. I'm pretty sure my safety would increase the further away from David I got.

*o*

"You're sure you're okay?" Mom asked for the millionth time as we stepped off the elevator. "You're not hurt or anything?"

"Just a little shaken," I told her. "First there was the stalker-esque thing yesterday, then the car blew up and then-." I cut myself off, not sure if I should tell her about the woman. Surely it was nothing? Just a woman trying to look after a stranded teenager? I shook my head. No need to worry her unnecessarily.

Mom stopped at our door and stuck her hand in her handbag for the room key. "And then what?" she asked.

"It's nothing," I said as she continued to dig.

"Aha!" she cried, triumphantly, pulling the key out. "It's not nothing. It's obviously bothering you. Tell Mommy."

"There was this woman who sat down beside me," I started. "She looked harmless enough. A bit like a housewife who was just out running some errands. But she offered to drop me home after like two seconds of conversation. It freaked me out," I finished lamely.

The key slipped from Mom's fingers as she froze, poised to swipe it in the lock. A look of pure terror crossed over her face and she avoided my gaze entirely, mechanically bending to pick up the key and let us into the room. She ushered me in then quickly locked the door behind us. Her actions were freaking me out again. Something was definitely not right here. What was she hiding from me?

* * *

><p><em>PS: I forgot about OMG- Oh My God. (but I usually use Omigord instead).<em>

_Please take the time to review. All your comments encourage me to write more and possibly answer some of the questions I've created._


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks to those who reviewed last chapter, and a special thanks to Shreek, who has inadvertently become my unofficial beta for this story. Without her playing devil's advocate you'd be subjected to something less precise than what I present to you up to this point. I hope you enjoy it._

**Chapter 5**

Ranger was standing at the door to his office at 1700 hours, waiting impatiently for his men to deliver the reports on their mystery woman and her child but his mind was preoccupied with worry for his wife. In the past several hours he'd checked to make sure Stephanie was alright and that Bobby was extra vigilant in his watch of her, and even added a back up team to each shift on her body-guard roster. Ensuring his wife's safety was always his top priority, and ideally, he would have liked to order her to come straight home so he could be absolutely sure she was in no danger. That would never work, however. He'd tried it before. The more he tried to command her, the more she defied his orders, even if she knew he had a point.

She had arrived in the control room an hour ago, heading straight for Lester – her favourite employee to annoy. Lester had hastily shut down the screen of his computer in order to keep her from seeing what he was working on.

Approaching the cubicle to see for himself that she was alive and well, Ranger had heard her laughter drifting out toward him.

"Oh, _I_ see how it is," she giggled. "Working on the '_latest mystery_.'" She air quoted, tittering a little more before patting his shoulder and assuring him, "Don't worry, Les. I won't tell Carlos that you're looking at porn on company time."

Of course she must have known that Ranger was nearby when she said that, he thought, she always seemed to sense his presence. As he paused in the doorway a moment and she turned to face him an evil grin spread broadly across her face. "Lester is most definitely _not_ looking at porn on your time," she informed me solemnly, but with that mischievous twinkle in her eye that he'd fallen in love with.

With a slight smile, Ranger pulled her to him, caressing her face with one hand and the swell of her stomach with the other. Pressing a kiss against her hair, he intoned, "Good to know, Babe."

Just then, Hal's voice cut across the room from his cubicle, "Boss, there's something fishy about Leah Hathwick's husband's death."

There was a moment of silence, during which Ranger was sorely tempted to throttle someone – most likely Hal. What did he not understand about _no one mentions anything to Steph_ did he not understand. He squashed the instinct to storm over to Hal's cubicle and beat him senseless when he caught sight of the look on his wife's face. Her bright blue eyes had widened at the Hal's statement and all the colour drained from her face. As he watched, her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went limp. Ranger was grateful he already had his hands on her, as it made catching her all the easier.

*o*

The moment the door was locked, Mom was pacing all over the place, muttering under her breath and wringing her hands. I watched from the bed, cross-legged and as patient as I could manage to be as her freak out elevated my own levels of apprehension. Every now and then she would throw her hands up in frustration, causing me to jump from the sudden movement. I hadn't seen Mom this worked up since the florist died three days before a major event. Dad and I had been roped into putting together, like, a million little bouquet things for the tables while she worked on some kind of massive thing that was for the entrance. All this with fake flowers she'd bought from the craft store and a hell of a lot of glue.

Now, she had that same look of horror as she to the kitchen bench and banged her head against it. She banged once. Twice. Three times. I was about to stop her when she abruptly stood straight and turned to face me. If I was reading her expression correctly – and I felt sure I was, since it was the exact same one she'd had before she'd announced she was ducking out to the craft store – she'd made a decision and was about to act on it. As I watched she pulled a chair away from the dining table and set it a foot away from the end of the bed before hurrying back to the kitchen, grabbing two bottles of water and a couple of cheese and cracker snack packs and returned to the chair. Once she was seated she handed me a bottle of water and a snack pack.

"Eat something first," she said. "We might not feel like it afterward."

_Hard news_. I didn't want to hear, but I had to. There was nothing I could do to convince myself to not listen, to tell her I didn't need to know what she was going to tell me. I had to know. I had to endure whatever she said, no matter how awful or frightening it was.

Nodding my agreement, but thinking that I already didn't feel much like eating - on top of my own stress, seeing Mom act like this was just making my head spin and gut tighten – I ripped open my snack and began to work my way through the five crackers and their accompanying ham and cheese rounds. Mom, I noticed, was slow in her eating, giving me enough time to take my trash to the bin and sit back down before she set aside her own packaging and took a sip of water. She speared me with a clear gaze, devoid of much of the stress that had been riddled throughout her just moments before.

"Are you sure you want to hear this?" she asked, screwing the top back on the water and placing it beside her rubbish.

"Just tell me," I responded. I tried to cut the line to my emotions, to approach the information Mom was about to give me with a clear head and a rational mind, but I could never quite subdue them totally. "I need to know what's going on. Why we're here."

Mom took a deep, almost cleansing breath before starting in. "It's about your dad," she stated softly, and I knew then that it had most definitely been the right choice to eat first. Rather than interrupt her and demand she just spill everything immediately, I nodded again and allowed her to continue at her own pace. A long pause followed.

"It's about his death, isn't it?" I asked quietly, feeling as though I was incredibly small. I'd been the one to discover dad's body, lying in a bloody pool in the basement. Police said his death was an accident; that Dad was probably getting a box off the top shelf and knocked something, causing everything to fall to the floor. On top of him. Bowling balls, ice skates, gardening tools. They'd all done their damage. And when I'd arrived home from the movies that afternoon he was already gone. After I'd gotten over the shock of seeing him so broken, I started to blame myself. If I hadn't gone to the movies with my friends I would have been at home. Would have heard the crash. Would have been able to get him help. Might have prevented his death.

Of course, Mom blamed herself as well. She'd been the one to stack the shelves down there, insisting that Dad didn't have the right balance abilities to ensure nothing fell.

Now, Mom took a deep, shaky breath, regaining my attention. "I know you're aware of the string of deaths over the last couple of years," she said. "All male, all married, all in the same general area, all supposedly accidental."

I nodded that I knew what she was talking about, newspaper articles and news bulletins flashing through my mind. It had been kind of hard to escape the knowledge that people were dying by unnatural causes too frequently. Apparently the police had suspicions that it was a serial killer but no evidence to prove it, nor any leads to follow. "You think Dad was a victim of whatever sick bastard has been killing all the men in our town?" I intoned.

Looking slightly relieved that I'd understood where she was going and that she didn't have to spell it out for me, Mom nodded grimly. "The police haven't been able to do anything about it. They said their hands were tied. Nothing to go on. I just need some answers."

"So you dragged me half way across the country, to a meet with a security company without any kind of knowledge as to whether or not they would actually help you?"

Again, she nodded. "They're the best there is," she assured me. "If anyone can solve this, they can."

She watched me carefully, waiting for my reaction. For me to yell, or cry, or storm out of the room. But none of those emotional displays seemed to fit the way I was feeling. I crossed my arms over my chest, wrapping them tightly and taking comfort from the pressure. Unable to meet her gaze, I stared at the bed spread I sat upon as I said, "You said Dad was going to be the one to tell me when the time came."

"That's something entirely different," she murmured.

"And your freak out just now when I mentioned that lady who offered to drop me home?" I asked pointedly. "Is that to do with how Dad died?

She didn't answer for a moment. Avoiding my gaze, she took a long pull from her water, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she placed it back on the floor. Her hands were shaking and she was breathing in short almost gasping breaths. I watched her intently, waiting for her reply. For her to tell me that everything was okay. That we were safe. It didn't come. Instead, she bobbed her head in an affirmative nod.

"That doesn't make sense," I said, half to myself, still processing the information. She'd lied to me. She'd contradicted herself. She'd dragged me half way across the country without telling me a single thing. And now nothing she was telling me was fitting together. It was like she was laying down puzzle pieces but they weren't from the same puzzle. The more I contemplated what she was telling me, the angrier I became. "You said we were here... we were..." I clenched my teeth together, trying to find a way to voice the frustration that was coursing through my body. "You said it was because of something Dad was going to tell me." I waited for a response, but she remained impassive. "Was that a lie?" I demanded.

Still looking anywhere but at me, she shook her head, a sheen of tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

"I don't understand, Mom!" I yelled at her. "Why can't you just _tell me?_"

"Because it's complicated!" she howled, sounding like I'd hurt her. Like I was tearing at her limbs. Tears spilled over and tracked down her cheeks. She swiped at them angrily as she resumed her pacing. "I can't tell you because you'll hate me. You'll hate me for not telling you. You'll hate me for doing it. You'll-."

The frustration got the better of me, and I thrust myself back onto the bed, lying spread-eagle as I bashed closed fists against the duvet. "You don't know that!" I screeched. "You have no way of knowing that! Just tell me and let _me_ decide how to feel about it!"

Shaking her head vehemently, she slowly sank to the floor in the middle of the room. Crying, sobbing, heaving. I'd pushed her too far. She couldn't handle the pressure. She needed time to plan. To organise. To arrange. To prepare. Her anxiety levels were too high for this conversation to come to any kind of happy end. I wasn't going to get the information out of her tonight.

* * *

><p><em>Please take the time to review. Your feedback encourages me to write more and to write faster.<em>


	6. Chapter 6

_Sorry to make you all wait longer than usual for this chapter (IE: it was more than a day or so). I got caught up in reading an awesome new book series (Bombay Family Assassins by Leslie Langtry. You should totes check it out). But here it is. _

**Chapter 6**

Mom and I didn't speak much for the rest of the night, or even the next morning as we got ready to leave once more. We were like separate entities, orbiting around each other but distanced by miles and miles, and a sound proof cone, like in _Get _Smart. There was silence in the car, broken only when we reached the city and were bombarded by the honking horns of the morning traffic. I steered us toward Rangeman without a word and pulled to the curb to let Mom out. She clutched a package of forms in her hands as she left the car and strolled purposefully toward the building. God only knew what the forms were for, or even if the people that worked there would actually help us. From my point of view, it seemed like they were just going to keep her jumping through their elaborate hoops for all eternity. It felt like we'd been fronting up to this place for weeks already, but it had only been three days.

It was too early in the morning for me to be motivated to do anything or go anywhere, - especially since it was supposed to be my vacation and I would ordinarily still be asleep at this hour - so I turned off the car and leaned the seat back. Pushing my raging thoughts into a little-visited corner of my mind, I tried to relax. I'd been wound tight since the moment I spied my mother sitting brokenly on the floor and realised that I couldn't possible demand anything more of her.

I had to wait until she was ready to tell me, or risk sending her over the edge of insanity.

Staring blankly up at the roof of the car, I tried desperately to piece together puzzle segments Mom had pretty much dumped on me. It was no use, though. Like trying to do one of those jigsaw puzzles where the picture it made was just a jumble of jelly beans, but you didn't have the picture on the box to help you through. I would have done anything to have the picture from whatever box Mom pulled this from.

I was so absorbed in my musings that I didn't realise anyone was anywhere near me until the tap on my window startled me into a small squeal. Seeing who it was, I wound down the window. "Hey," I smiled up at him. "What's my random tip of the day? Change parking spaces every half hour to through off the stalkers and car bombers?"

His eyebrows rose almost to his sandy hairline. "Stalkers and car bombers?" he asked. "Why would you need tips on that?"

"It's been an interesting couple of days," I admitted, leaning further out of the car so that my Mystery Advisor didn't have to lean down so far. "I've perfected my tan, been stalked to a pizza parlour, had my friend's car blow up as we were walking toward it, offered a lift home by a random stranger, and found out that my mother is here because she wants a security company from half way across the company to help her find out the truth about my father's death." I paused for a moment, wondering why I was telling him all this. I just seemed to instantly trust him for some reason, which was weird, because usually I don't trust guys that come over and tell me exactly how long I've been tanning on the hood of my mother's car and then hand me a bottle of sun block that they just happened to be carrying with them. "There's other stuff too, but she hasn't really clued me in on anything. It's frustrating."

"Mom's keeping secrets still?" he asked unnecessarily, but I nodded in reply anyway. "And you're in danger?"

"Seems that way," I commented.

Before he could say anything more, a male voice called out from across the street. "Hey Hank!" My mystery advisor looked up at that, so I assumed that was his name. "Who are you talking to?"

I didn't hear Hank's reply, though; I was too busy ogling his breast where a company logo was embroidered. A vaguely familiar and highly significant company logo.

_Rangeman._

"You work for Rangeman?" I blurted, staring up at him.

He glanced down as his friend came around the front of the car to stand beside him. Dressed identically in black cargo pants, black combat boots, and, yep you guessed it, black painted on t-shirt. A closer inspection of his t-shirt yielded the same logo.

"You're the guys Mom is trying to get to help us," I told them.

"You're Amabel Hathwick?" the friend asked. When I nodded slightly – no use in lying - he offered me his hand to shake. "Lester Santos, we spoke on the phone. Would you mind coming up so we can talk?"

Uncertain, I looked between the two muscled men and the building where Mom was. _What would she think if she knew I'd been talking to these guys?_ I mentally rolled my eyes at that thought_, _countering it with another, more logical thought: _What if I could convince them to help us? _I nodded, took the keys out of the ignition, wound up the window and locked up the car, following them to the building.

"Mom can't know about this," I said at the same time Lester stated, "We don't want you to tell your Mom about this just yet."

I stated at him for a moment before saying, "I have my reasons, which Hank can probably guess, and I assume you have your own."

"We'll talk it through when we get up too Tank's office," Hank promised.

So there was I was, seated in a visitor's chair in front of a large mahogany desk. Hank was leaning against the doorjamb, six feet away and Lester had momentarily disappeared, probably to find this "Tank" guy. I crossed on leg over the other as I cast my gaze around the office, taking in the tall bookcase on the wall behind me that held some photos of various groups of men in army uniform as well as a couple in what I now recognised as Rangeman-black – all the guys we passed on our way in had been wearing exactly the same outfit.

"They should be back in a second," Hank mentioned, "Would you like a drink? We have water, juice, sports drinks. There might be some pop I can dig up if the boss's wife hasn't drank it all."

"That's okay," I assured him just as Lester returned followed by a _massive_ man. Gihugic even. No, Gihugic wasn't quite big enough either. Let's try _enormagantic. _Yes, I was making up words, but seriously, if you saw this guy you'd know what I meant. He must have been three foot wide, eight feet tall or solid, bulging muscle. His head was shaved, his skin was dark and what I assumed was his neutral expression screamed MENACING. As tends to happen when I'm confronted with something or someone that is beyond my comprehension or that scares the shit out of me, I started rambling. "OMG!" I practically squealed, sliding my chair back away from the desk as he took a seat behind it. "It's totes not naturally to be that enormagantic! There has GOT to be some kind of steroid or drug use involved for you to be that big! I hear steroids do terrible things to your..." I trailed off then as Hank laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and I realised that I was about to mention parts of his anatomy that I really would rather not think about at the present moment. "Sorry," I mumbled.

Tank just nodded and tapped something on his laptop. Lester, on the other hand, had collapsed into the chair next to me, laughing his guts up. "She's a riot!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "We gotta get a kid like this on payroll somehow! Life's too serious around here!"

"Why don't we explain why we want to talk to her?" Hank suggested as Lester continued to chuckle.

Tank nodded marginally again. "Would your mother have any reason to be nervous about approaching Rangeman?" he asked abruptly.

Caught off guard, I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out – probably because I had no idea how to answer the question. "She wants you to investigate Dad's death," I finally managed to tell him. "It could just be apprehension about that?"

This time he shook his head, "She hasn't mentioned your father or his death in any of the meetings."

"Well maybe she's reluctant to because you're already making her stand on her head and tap dance in order to get a useful meeting with you guys," I retorted.

Lester's guffaws filled the room once more. "Stand on her head and tap dance!" he cried. "Oh, seriously, Tank, is there some way we can keep her? Phone service? She's good at phones."

Tank rolled his eyes, tapped a few keys on his laptop and clicked a button on the corner of his desk. A large flat screen television descending from the ceiling behind him, displaying my mom in a small room with a man in black. She did indeed look nervous as she wiped what I assumed was sweat from her brow. I watched the man type something into his computer before saying something. I realised it must have been a question as Mom replied then promptly tugged on her left ear.

"You're kidding," I breathed.

"She's definitely nervous, yeah?" Lester commented, misinterpreting my remark.

"Yeah," I agreed. "And whatever she just said was a lie." As I watched, she seemed to be explaining something to the guy while scratching her neck. "And now she's stretching the truth."

Hank, Lester and Tank all leaned closer to the screen, apparently attempting to see what I was seeing. They shook their heads in unison and glanced back at me when Mom told another lie and I informed them.

"How?" Tank demanded.

Rather than delve into a long winded explanation I simply tugged my ear and said, "Lie." Then scratched my neck and said, "Not quite a lie."

They all made eye contact and seemed to be having a conversation without words. Probably one of those Jedi mind tricks they teach you in Security school. It took several long moments for their attention to return to me. "You've been a great help," Tank informed me. "You mother is going to need to pick up her visitor's badge this afternoon and then call up and make another appointment. The appointment she makes will be with me, but I'm going to ensure that Hank, Lester and our colleague Hal are available at the same time as her appointment. I'd appreciate it if you could meet with them to go through the security footage from her previous meetings and give any insights on what you see or hear that could help us in working out what is up."

I waited for the information to settle into my brain, fully processed, before I spoke. "You mean you want me to double cross my own mother?"

It was Hank who addressed my issue. "We have noticed her unusual behaviour and you have raised concerns about her keeping details and reasons for this trip and the need to seek our assistance. We can help each other find answers."

*o*

Ten minutes later, I was back in the car, blasting Goth Opera through the stereo system when Mom stepped out the building. She'd pulled out her cell phone, but tucked it back in her pocket when she spotted me still where she'd left me and hurried over. As she slipped into the passenger seat, I turned down the volume on my music and put the car in gear, pulling away from the curb and down the street before either of us spoke. Things still seemed a little tense between us from last night, and with my double crossing I was feeling extra guilty. Not only had I stressed her out last night, but now I was planning on betraying her trust and work with... well actually... I was going to say enemy, but they're not. They're the people she's seeking help from. I'm doing this to help her get her help, right?

Right. Of course I am.

I was driving on autopilot, my mind occupied by recounting the conversation with the three men. In retrospect, I probably should have kept my mouth shut about a few things. Especially when it came to my comments on Tank's size. Can we say word vomit?... or was it word diarrhoea? Okay, let's look at this logically. Vomit equals stuff spilling from your mouth. Diarrhoea equals – how do I put this pleasantly? – sloppy excretions that are usually repetitive. Well, it was certainly sloppy... but I'd like to think my words weren't repetitive in their stupidity. So word vomit it is.

"We're going to hang around Trent for the day," Mom finally said, pulling out her phone and tapping something into it. I stopped for a red light and glanced over to see what she was doing. It didn't look like she was texting. "Turn right up here," she mentioned a moment or two later. "Let's visit the state museum."

_Oh goodie. The state museum. Old stuff and education on my vacation. It just keeps getting better._ I thought all this, and had half a mind to say it, but remembering my... secret meeting (I wasn't going to think of it as betrayal) I decided that maybe I shouldn't antagonise her. After all, some museums could be interesting. Couldn't they? Oh who am I kidding? I was in for a massive borefest and I couldn't even gripe about it because of my stupid conscience and it's _you're-betraying-her-so-be-nice-to-make-up-for-it_ notions. Sigh.

* * *

><p><em>Please take a moment to review this story. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.<em>


	7. Chapter 7

_Alright, so obviously, my mother was lying when she said I would have "plenty of time for writing" while on the cruise, because I did absolutely NO writing while on that ship. I did, however have an awesome time. We went to six ports in New Caledonia and Vanuatu including Noumea, Lifou, Mystery Island, Walla, Champagne Bay and Port Villa. Best Snorkelling was at Mystery Island (though the only other place we snorkelled at was Walla), and the best beach HAD to be Champagne Bay (located on Espiritu Santo, same island used in the filming of Blue Lagoon). Absolutely pristine waters and powdery sand. B-E-A-UTIFUL. Anyway. I got back this morning, and this evening I started writing this chapter. Now here it is. Let me know if you understand the fat-kid part, 'cos Shreek was confused by it, but I thought it was pretty straight forward._

**Chapter 7**

After half an hour at the museum I'd been reduced to a steaming pile of OMG-WTF-is-wrong-with-my-life, and ended up taking out my phone to Facebook while I trailed behind Mom, occasionally adding a mildly-interested-sounding comment just so that she didn't think I was completely bored. Which I was, BTW. Like, completely and utterly dying of boredom. The interesting in my life was slowly being sucked out along with my brain and maybe even a couple of vital organs. But hey, who needs those when you're dead?

We'd paused at the hadrosaurus exhibit and Mom was yabbering on about something vaguely dinosaur related from when she was a kid – hehe, she was probably telling me about the pet dinosaur she had when she was five – when my phone dinged informing me that someone had PM'd me on Facebook.

_David Hey. How are you holding up?_

Now, ordinarily, if a hot guy starts a conversation with me, even on Facebook, I do a little happy dance and promptly reply. However, given the recent circumstances surrounding this particular hot guy, I was exercising my fat-kid caution. Fat-kid caution because it doesn't get exercise, not because it's the caution of a fat-kid. I didn't chase down a fat-kid and steal his caution. That would be mean. I took a moment to clear my head of the predictable "Oh! He's talking to ME!" urges and responded with calm.

_Mab – Pretty good, all things considered. How about you? How's the transport situation._

_David – My old pushbike still works, amazingly._

_Mab – At least you're staying in shape. :P_

_David – True that. _

There was a lull in our conversation then, allowing me to gaze blankly at the whales hanging from the ceiling as Mom led me to another boring part of the museum.

_David – What are you doing tonight?_

Again, my internal alarm system was of two minds. The first wanted to jump for joy and the second wanted to turn the phone off and hide under a nearby bench, hoping he doesn't find me. Of course, both of those would look a little ridiculous because a) I was in a museum and getting excited enough to exert physical energy is not allowed (or at least that's what I kept telling myself), and b) he's probably got a trace on my phone that still works even when the phone is turned off. Or maybe my mind was just overreacting. Okay, say he really is a nice guy and just wants to take me out for dinner, am I really okay with a summer fling? Especially since I have no idea how long it could possibly last. Mom could drag my ass straight back home at any moment. How would I deal with that if I let my heart open up to David?

Shaking my head as we paused at the seashell display, I decided that I was over thinking things. It was probably best to keep things as simple as possible.

_Mab – At this rate, trying desperately to deflate my boredom gland._

_David – Sounds like a job for Davey Boy *insert superhero stance here, complete with fluttering cape and spandex*_

I had to laugh out loud at that. I really did like him. I was just freaked out by all the stuff that had happened in the last three days. My life had almost literally gone to hell in a hand basket, and it seemed that I'd forgotten my sun block _and_ a snack.

So the official consensus was that David was alright, even if freaky things happened when I was around him. And as a result, I decided that if he were to ask me ou- DING!

Startled out of my thoughts by the noise my phone made, I glanced down to find another message for _Davey Boy_.

_David – Are you still there? I didn't scare you off with my nerdiness, did I?_

I typed a quick reply and was surprised when he messaged me back almost immediately.

_Mab – Of course not. Nerdiness is kind of cute._

_David – Wanna have dinner with me tonight?_

I watched as Mom explained to a tour guide that the information she was giving her patrons was incorrect and imagined the kind of night we would have if we spent it together. Picture this: Me, cross-legged on the couch. Mom sitting at the table. Both of us with boxes of Chinese food. Mom is rambling on about the inconsistencies in the information and timelines of the museum displays. I am pretending to listen while trying not to roll my eyes because deep down I know it'd really hurt her if she knew that Rangeman was letting me into their secret little circle in order to investigate her.

Yeah, that's a pleasant evening.

Decision made, I typed my answer and waited for another reply while I read the length "Do Not" sign pinned to the wall next to one of the entrances.

*o*

Stephanie sat at the desk in her small cubicle, trying to avoid her husband. She'd been lucky this morning when she woke up in that Ranger had already been for his morning run and had apparently been called away on an urgent job. Tank had informed her that the earliest he would be back was mid afternoon at which point he would need to fill in a ream of paperwork regarding the job then. So that gave her about six hours, during which time she had to somehow figure out exactly why Ranger was looking into Leah and her husband.

How had he found out about her? Why was he investigating her? Why hadn't he simply asked her about it? Furthermore, you'd think that a master security guy who does full background checks on people, uncovering their hidden secrets all the time would have picked it up ages ago, wouldn't you? Maybe he had. Maybe he'd been respecting her in not asking but had gotten so curious that he couldn't _not_ investigate any longer. But again, why not just ask her?

Her Spidey Sense was tingling, but she couldn't for the life of her work out what was wrong. Probably, she should have paid more attention when Salvatore was showing her how to work the computers. Surely he'd explained how to search the search history. If Steph could have accessed the searches the guys had done on Leah and her family she might have been able to work it all out without the guys knowing.

As it stands, though, she had a very poor attention span.

"So," she said cheerily, plopping down in an empty chair next to Hal at the monitors. Being that Hal wasn't the brightest bulb, he was, of course, her first port of call. If she was going to have any luck getting information without anyone knowing that's what she was doing, it would be with Hal. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," he replied, sending her a sideways glance. "Just doing monitor duty."

"Ahh." Steph nodded her understanding. "Anything new and interesting happen lately?"

He glanced at her again, no doubt wondering what her intentions were for this conversation. "Cases in, cases out. The usual," he explained.

"What cases do we have on the table at the moment?" she pressed.

Confused, Hal gestured to the wall covered in cork board where they pinned a summary of each case they had on the go. All employees were expected to be aware of basic details of most or all of the cases. If Steph wanted to know about the cases she could have easily walked the extra ten steps and found out for herself.

"It's not up there though, is it?" she intoned slyly, trying to make out that she was in on his little secret, despite not knowing if she was or not.

Hal's voice cracked a little as he replied, "What's not up there, Steph?"

"The secret case you're working on," she whispered. "It would hardly be a secret if it was up on the wall, now would it?" Hal shook his head but said nothing, waiting for her to ask the questions he had a feeling were coming next. "So what's the deal with this Leah person? Is she a client? Or are we looking into her _for_ a client?"

Steph could almost see the cog turning in Hal's head as he tried to think of a way to phrase his answer that would neither give anything away or incriminate him should the Boss find out he'd been speaking to her about the case. He wasn't that dumb. He knew that secrecy meant secrecy, even from the manipulative woman they'd all developed a weak spot for.

"Whacha talkin' 'bout?" Lester asked, spinning across the comm. floor in his desk chair and coming to stop just behind the pair.

Hal breathed a sigh of relief and turned his full attention back to the monitors without another word. Steph huffed and turned to Lester, putting on her best pout.

"Who's this Leah woman you're investigating."

Lester didn't fall for it for a minute. He narrowed his eyes and replied coolly, "Why don't you tell _me_ who this Leah woman is?"

Steph shook her head. "I can't. Not until you tell me why you're investigating her."

"She came here looking for you," he said shortly. "You know her, I presume and there's some kind of secret to do with her that you're keeping from Ranger, hence the reason you went very pale and fainted when her name was mentioned. How do you know her?"

"We met in college," Steph explained rather evasively, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back in her chair. "Well, I was in college anyway."

"How did you meet?" Lester asked, sounding almost curious as he pulled a candy bar from his pocket.

"Oh no you don't," Steph warned him. "Don't think for a minute that I'm going to spill my guts for one measly little candy bar."

Lester looked at the king sized chocolate, a little surprised. "Name your price," he uttered without thinking.

*o*

David picked me up at six (in his Uncle's car, not on the push bike. I know, I was worried about that for a while too) and took me to the arcade. Yes. That's right. The arcade. I kid you not. We dined on first class, half stale French Fries while discussing David's video game habits. Apparently he'd held the high score on Poppin' Dinos for two years and he kept beating it. It had gotten to the stage where he was the only name that appeared on the scoreboard. Now, ordinarily, I might think that was extremely lame and try to find a way to end the date immediately. But this was David. Somehow he made is seem awesome.

So he showed me his scores and demonstrated how he played then allowed me to have a go at beating his score.

Now, let me just stress that I had never in my life played this game before, nor had I even heard of it prior to entering this Arcade. David coached me through the first couple of levels, giving me hints and tips while I learned how to play. Then, once it appeared I'd gotten the hang of it, he went and got us some drinks while I continued to play. I was still playing the same game when he returned. And it was still going when we finished our Colas. His eyes were bugged out, taking in the speed at which I popped the dinos and the way my score kept increasing. Something told me I was in danger of beating his score if this persisted.

I'd just cleared yet another level when my cell phone began to ring in my pocket. I went to pull my hand away from the game in order to answer it, but David pushed it back onto the controls. "Don't answer it," he urged. "You're too close. You can't throw this away."

I spared a moment to glance in his direction. "What if it's my Mom?" I worried.

"She'll leave a message."

"She doesn't like when I don't answer my phone, it worries her."

David gave me a look that I caught out of the corner of my eye as I continued to pop the dinosaurs on the screen. "How about this?" he offered. "I'll check the caller ID and if it's your Mom, I'll answer it. If it's not, we'll let it go to voice mail."

I nodded and braced myself for his roaming hand. He placed it gently on my hip first and assured me, "I am _not_ getting fresh, I'm just reaching for your phone." Again, I nodded, but said nothing. He dipped his hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone, checking the display as it continued ringing. After a brief moment, he frowned and answered the phone. "Amabel's phone, David speaking." Pause. "She's busy at the moment." Pause. "Okay, I'll let her know." He hung up and slid the phone away again. "That was a guy named Lester, he said to meet him in the alleyway tomorrow when you arrive. You're not into drugs, are you?"

Completely and utterly shocked, I turned to face him fully, game forgotten. "What?" I managed to gasp, wide eyed and staring as the game made those completely dismal _LOSER_ sounds behind me. "Of course I'm not into drugs! What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

"It just sounded suspicious," he replied. "Very covert. Sorry."

"It's fine," I muttered, turning back the screen that was now flashing my score, which just happened to be the new high score. I grinned over at David.

"Oh, it is _on_!" he declared, shoving me aside and inserting a quarter into the machine.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading yet another chapter. Please take the time to review. Your feedback is a valuable source of encouragement.<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_Another chapter so soon after the last? Are you as surprised as I am? It just seemed to flow so easily. So I'm gonna leave you all to read it while I get back to perusing "Dear Blank, Please Blank" and other such wastes of time. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 8**

Steph settled into the high backed conference room chair usually reserved for her husband. Today, however, he had insisted she take it. Maybe it was her recent show of apparent weakness, or maybe he was softening her up. Not that she needed it, she mused, glancing down at her plump form. She folded her hands atop her round belly and looked around the table. "Well?" she prompted.

"Well what?" Carlos replied sounding almost confused. "You're the one with information."

She opened her mouth to deny, but closed it again when she caught the look on Lester's face. It was slightly panicked and he appeared to be avoiding her gaze – never before had he peered so closely at the table. "I'm not tell you anything until you tell me why you're investigating Leah," she finally pronounced, staring her husband straight in the eye as if daring him to go against her. "That's the deal I made with Lester."

The corners of his eyes crinkled into a somewhat smile. "Babe," he said. "Lester told me he'd bribed you into confessing your connection with a candy bar."

"Two candy bars and the reason for the investigation," Steph corrected defiantly.

They both turned glares on the man in question. He squirmed a little under their scrutiny, but managed to spit out a hurried, "That may have been true."

Steph was still glaring in Lester's direction when she felt a hand on her forearm and realised Carlos had taken up the seat beside her and was trying to get her attention.

"Did you get your candy bars, Babe?" he asked softly. When she slowly shook her head he turned his head to the side and barked, "Santos!"

There were some scrambling sounds complete with a thunk and a groan as Lester raced from the room, leaving the rest of the occupants chuckling in his wake.

"Well?" Steph prompted again, getting impatient.

Carlos sighed and motioned to Hank, who pressed a few buttons on his laptop. The screen came down and a few more buttons were pressed, revealing a still frame of one Leah Hathwick.

"Is this the Leah Hathwick you know?" he asked her, gesturing to the screen.

Steph took a moment to take in the woman displayed there before nodding her affirmation. "Why are you investigating her?" she asked.

"Nearly a week ago she made an appointment here at Rangeman," Tank began, taking a seat on her other side. He motioned to Hank, who brought up a screen capture of the appointment log where details of clients and reasons for appointments are recorded. Steph began to skim read the entry but gave up when Tank summarised for her. "She expressed a need to get in contact with you, stating that the Rangeman General Enquiries extension number was the only contact listed for you."

"Which it is," her husband reminded her.

This occurrence followed a particularly horrendous bout of stalker phone calls. Not long after they got married they had agreed that it would be best and probably safest to change her phone number listing to that of a secure extension of the Rangeman Enquiries line. That way all her calls from people other than close friends and family, were screened and could be forwarded to either the seventh floor apartment or her cell if it was deemed safe.

Nodding her understanding, she indicated that they should continue.

"We issued her with an initial appointment time in order to suss out the situation," Tank continued. "She appeared twitchy and nervous. Kept informing Hal that all she wanted was to speak to you."

"And you wouldn't let her?" Steph asked incredulously.

Carlos shook his head. "She drove halfway across the country to inform us that she just wanted to speak with you, Babe," he reiterated.

"Furthermore," Lester added, skidding into the room like an ice skater desperately trying to _not hit that barrier!_ "Her restless behaviour is very suspicious."

Steph rolled her eyes at them all. "Did it ever occur to you that she might be restless because of the urgency of her situation?"

"Urgency of what situation?" Hank countered.

Hal, Steph noticed, sat in the corner, avoiding her gaze and keeping his lips tightly pressed together. Guess he didn't trust himself.

She threw up her hands. "I don't _know!_" she exclaimed. "You're refusing to let me speak to her!"

"She could be dangerous," Carlos tried to soothe her, rubbing his hand up and down her arm.

Steph gave him her best 'Burg glare, but he never faltered in his ministrations. It seemed he'd grown immune to her wrath, not that it had ever really affected him. "A phone conversation, Carlos," She practically seethed. "One that would most likely be recorded and listened to by yourself and a number of other employees. _That's_ too dangerous?"

The room was silent for several long minutes. Apparently they hadn't considered it that way.

"Anyway," Lester broke the silence. "Things got a little more suspicious when we spoke to her daughter an-"

"Amabel?" Steph inserted aurtomatically.

"You know Amabel?" Carlos asked.

I was there when she was born," She informed him directly before snapping her mouth shut and mentally slapping herself upside the head for divulging that information. Now, even if she didn't tell him her connection to Leah, he could go away and easily find it out. It would take no more than three clicks of the computer mouse once a general background check on the girl was started, that much she knew from prior experience. Whether she confessed tonight or not, he would know before bedtime.

Carlos's eyes bored holes into the side of her face as she stared determinedly at the table. The rest of the guys, she acknowledged, were avoiding looking in their direction as if doing so gave them privacy.

"Babe?"

She took a deep breath, slowly turning to face his stare head on. "Carlos?"

"We need to know how you know her," he urged.

*o*

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time I got back to the hotel room that night and was not surprised to find that Mom was sitting in one of the hard dining chairs waiting for me to return. She gave me one of _those_ looks as I closed the door behind me and dumped my bag by the door, kicking my shoes off willy-nilly. Either she disapproved of my apparent disregard for her enforced organisation and tidiness – which I knew she did – or she was not happy about the late hour at which I arrived home – which I knew she did.

"What do you call this?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her left foot in an irritated fashion.

"An awkward moment between mother and daughter?" I guessed.

"Do you know what time it is?"

I could see this conversation was going to be a statement of the obvious, but as long as it kept her focused on the fact that I was arriving home after curfew and not other aspects of the situation, I was all for it. "Yes I do," I confirmed, glancing at the digital display beside the bed just to double check.

She pushed herself up into a standing position as if that added to her intimidating persona. To be honest, it kind of did, but only because it brought her closer to my level and allowed her to better see my face. It was a good thing the lights were dimmed or I might have gotten an earful for something entirely different to breaking curfew. "What time is it, then?" she prompted, but the affect was lost when the tell-tale stress twitch jerked her shoulder.

Emboldened by this show of uncertainty, I took a step toward the bed, intending to grab my pyjamas and start changing as we continued our standoff. "Five to ten," I replied, reaching for my PJ top.

"And when's your curfew?" she pressed.

"Ten minutes ago," I informed her dutifully removing my shirt and turning to toss it on top of my suitcase. That was my mistake. The glow from the lamp caught my face at just the right angle – or wrong angle, depending on which side of the fence you were sitting on, from what happened next, I was thinking I was on the wrong side.

I stood there in just my bra and denim shorts as she went off like a rocket. Once again I had failed to adhere to her meticulously organised plan for life in general.

"You've been kissing!" she exclaimed, crossing the room in three strides and grabbing my lower jaw in her hand. All of a sudden she wasn't so twitchy or shaky. The pressure was firm to the point of discomfort as she turned my head this way and that, scrutinising my face. I could only imagine what she saw. Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. Puffy lips. Oh yes, and the hasty pony tail to hide the fact that my hair had gotten tangled from David's fingers. "It's that David boy, isn't it?" she insisted, releasing my face and taking a step back. All of a sudden she was back to shaking. She clasped her hands in front of her and shook her head back and forth. "No," she uttered. "No, this wasn't supposed to happen until you were eighteen."

I didn't have the heart to tell her that my first kiss had been a year ago with Eddie Jones at Soph's pool party. At this point it just seemed cruel.

"It was just a kiss," I assured her. It was all I could think of to say. "I'm sorry I worried you."

I knew she would need a little while to recalculate life, so I finished getting dressed and sat cross legged on the end of the bed as she paced the room, muttering and waving her hands. After ten minutes she paused and looked me straight in the eye.

"I don't like how this turns out," she informed solemnly, as if she'd just seen into my future rather than just adding up worst case scenarios. "I'm too young to be a grandmother."

Okay, _that_ I was not expecting. Talk about jumping to conclusions. I had to get her to calm down before I went into guilt overload. First the double crossing, now this. It was a wonder I was still alive!

* * *

><p><em>Please take the time to review. I believe reviews are the realy cure to the common cold. My nose will thank you!<em>


	9. Chapter 9

_Posting in the morning feels weird... but I'm doing it anyway. I had this written yesterday afternoon and sent it off to my bestie, Shreek, who has unwittingly become my unofficial Beta... kind of... these days she just yells at me for giving her random muffin cravings and not writing more so she can read it... All mistakes are found and fixed by yours truly. Anyway, point is, I waited for Shreek's approval, which came after I went to bed (quite early) last night. But here it is this morning, ready for you to read. _

**Chapter 9**

Fuelled by the silent anger her husband was projecting in her direction, Stephanie stormed past the assembled Merry Men – looking decidedly less than merry in the face of the current situation – and out of conference room. She knew Carlos was right behind her, so she couldn't even think about stopping to figure out where she was going; she just had to follow her gut. In only a couple of seconds she found herself crossing the threshold of the break room. (Talk about gut instinct). Two steps into the room a strong, mocha-latte hand wrapped around her upper arm, halting her progress and turning her back around.

"Babe," Carlos started, but she spoke over top of him.

"Don't _Babe_ me," she snapped. "You have absolutely _no right_ to be getting so worked up over this!"

He simply glared at her for moment, apparently trying to think of a valid argument, or perhaps attempting to regain control of his body so that he didn't hurt her. She'd known Carlos a fair while, and had gotten to know him on an even more intimate level over their marriage and never before had he looked at her with such resentment. But it wasn't just any resentment, she realised, he was bewildered by it. And rightfully so, she supposed, since she was his wife, the woman he loved more than any other in the world. He was not biologically programmed to feel the emotions he was currently feeling toward her.

Fact was, Steph was a little shocked by his reaction herself. This was the man who harboured so enough secrets of varying danger levels to make government officials go weak in the knees every time he opened his mouth. The man practically had a secret life that he could never tell her about. But he was losing his head over the fact that she had given birth to, and handed over a baby girl to another couple years before they even met. Where was the fairness in that? There wasn't really any, she thought, so she told him so.

"The point is," Carlos quietly raged. "You didn't tell me when we got married. Or when we decided to have our own kids. Don't you think that would have been something I should know?"

"Should know?" Steph exclaimed. "Carlos, do you know how much you know about me that you really _shouldn't_ know? A crap-tonne!" Carlos was silent, staring at her disbelievingly. She grunted and forged ahead, proving her point. "When did I get my first period?"

There was a groan from and a whimper from somewhere deeper into the room, but they ignored the sounds. It didn't matter.

"August fourteenth the year you turned thirteen. You were on your way home from school and it leaked through the back of your jeans," Carlos responded after barely a pause for thought.

Steph could only stare for a moment. She'd forgotten those details. Now, though, she recalled the way the jocks had laughed at her as she got off the bus that day. A silent tear rolled down her cheek from the renewed agony of the ordeal. "See?" she managed to spit out. "I didn't even remember that. The information you have on me is way more than any husband usually has."

"I had to know what I was getting into."

"You couldn't have just _asked me_ for the information you wanted?" she yelled.

There was a pause before he said calmly, "You said yourself that you didn't even remember those details. How was I going to trust your memory?"

An incoherent screech left Steph's throat as she clenched her fists in an attempt not to strike out at him; she knew it would only hurt herself. "You. Don't. Need. All. Those. Details!" she uttered through clenched teeth.

"No," he replied. "You're probably right about all of those things. But I had a right to know about this." There was a fire in his eye betraying the anger still simmering just below the surface.

Steph let out a harsh laugh, startling herself. _Where on earth did that come from?_ "You know, maybe you're right," she told him, ignoring the random urge to break into hysterical laughter. "But let's just take a look at the scorecard for a moment." Steph stuck her hand into her pocket and mimed pulling out a piece of paper and flicking it open. "Let's see." Clearing her throat she read from the imaginary card in her hand. "Carlos: Ex-military, Ranger, superb hand to hand combat skills, spectacular arms combat skills, secret life working for the government, probably kills people on a regular basis, snoops into everyone's past, can't afford his wife the benefit of the doubt on this one little thing, terrible phone manners." She looked up from her hand and met her husband's gaze haughtily. "Yep, that seems about right. Anything to add?"

Carlos stuck his hands into his pockets and raised a single eyebrow at her. "Oh," he murmured after a moment, glancing down. "What's this?" Pulling his hand from his pocket he too began to read from an imaginary scorecard. "Stephanie: Gorgeous hair, mesmerising eyes, great boobs, great ass, most tenacious woman alive, good at what she does, prone to rolling in garbage-,"

"Hey!"

"Attracts crazy stalkers-,"

"Oh, come on!"

"Secretly had a baby and passed it off to someone else to raise then didn't even bother to think about telling her husband when they got married or decide to have children of their own, can't cook." Carlos flipped his hand over as if checking the other side. "That about sums it up."

A long tense staring contest followed. Each absolutely furious with the other.

"Holy crap!" someone whispered behind Stephanie. "Did you hear that?"

"Of course I heard that!" came a reply. "Did you know he could say that much at once?"

"No! I just figured he struggled with Engli-."

The voices ceased as Carlos jerked his gazed over Steph's shoulder. Steph took advantage of his momentary distraction to sidle out of the room. Once again, he was right behind her as she made her way toward the elevator.

"Where are you going now?" Carlos demanded.

"I'm going home," she replied. "And I'll be changing the code. You should find somewhere else to stay tonight. We'll talk about it in the morning."

"You can't change the code, Babe," he tried to reason with her. "You need the-."

Steph, having stepped onto the elevator when the doors opened held up the master key fob she'd managed to swipe from his pocket. "I'll see you tomorrow," she called as the doors closed again.

*o*

I watched Mom walk across the street to the front door and waved when she turned back to look at me. The moment she was inside I pulled away from the curb and drove around the block to the back of the building. There was a convenient little parking bay right beside the door that I pulled into, and as I stepped out of the car, the back door opened revealing Hank in the same black on black uniform the men always wore. When I approached, he held out his hand, handing me what looked like a shopping rewards card. I looked at it blankly,

"It's yours," he informed me, turning it over to reveal my photo on the front. "Visitor's Plus Badge. It allows you entry via the back door and use of the lift and stairways to a limited number of floors."

It was kind of off-putting, how efficient these guys were. I mean. If this were any other company, they would have taken me to get a visitor's badge at the end of my visit here. And that's only if it would be needed. Seriously, most people think that if you're going to be escorted by an employee the entire time, you don't need an access pass.

"Take and we'll get going," he said waving it in front of me. I must have blank out for a moment.

He lead me up the stairs (the goddamned _stairs!_) to the same conference room we'd been in yesterday. At least, it looked the same as the one we were in yesterday. I couldn't be sure. On the table in the middle of the room was a tray of baked goods and the fixings for tea and coffee. My mouth was salivating the moment I laid eyes on the chocolate muffins. Yum!

"Ella sent up some morning tea," Lester explained as I took a seat at the table, still eyeing off the cakes. "We'll be joined by a special consultant today. She'll be helping us throughout the case to bring forth the truth of the matter and-."

I held up a hand, making him pause. "Dude, can it. You want me here, you talk to me in normal speak and – can I have a muffin? – stop treating me like a special consultant or whatever." I'd barely finished when the door opened and a belly entered, followed by the rest of a woman. A woman I recognised. "Hey, Steph!" I called at the same time the guys called "Hey Bomber!" They looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "What?"

Steph lowered herself into a seat across the table and grabbed a chocolate muffin for herself as the Rangemen made tennis-match-spectator impressions, looking from me to Steph to me again. I took a large bite of muffin, waiting for someone to say something and noticed from the corner of my eye that Steph did the same.

"You two know each other?" the guy I didn't know – I think Tank said his name was Hal? – uttered.

Mouths still full of muffin – warm gooey, delicious muffin – we both nodded. Steph regained ability to speak before me and responded, "We met at Cluck in a Bucket the other day."

The guys looked at each other as if to say, "Well, okay," and took a seat.

"So have you spoken to Ranger this morning?" Lester asked conversationally as he did something on his laptop to bring down a screen on the wall and start up the projector.

I noticed that Hank and Hal both busy themselves with closing doors and wiping down whiteboards, stuff like that. Hank even went so far as to test the dry erase markers and throw away the faded ones. It appeared that this conversation was not one they felt they should be privy to. How curious.

"Nope," Steph replied. "He'll come find me when he's calmed down." She paused with a chunk of muffin halfway to her mouth. "Or wants to rant at me some more." With a shrug she popped the cake in her mouth and turned to Hank and Hal. "Sit down, will you? You're making the place look untidy."

Unbidden, a giggle burbled up from my throat. Steph sent me a smile. "Sorry," I mentioned, feeling the need to explain myself. "It's just, they were actually tidying the room..."

* * *

><p><em>So how's that? Got enough information yet? Or do you need more? Please take the time to review.<em>


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks to those who reviewed last chapter. To the person who reviewed anonymously, the previous chapter is not "missing" the part where Steph actually told Ranger. I deliberately skipped over it having decided it would be too tedious. To Two Guns and a Knife, you have provided much amusement for me and Shreek over the past couple of days, but I hope you've realised that I get more done when not in the midst of a PM war. I will now resume reading your fanfic (which I did actually put on hold to wriite this chapter. Yeah, you're welcome). *Quickly tosses chapter to rabid fans* (Shreek made me write that)._

**Chapter 10**

"So you're a consultant?" I asked, attempting to fill the sudden silence. "That's pretty cool. Seems a bit like my Mom's work, only the topic is infinitely cooler if you ask me. I mean, hello? Organisation? Excuse me while I snore. Mystery solving, on the other hand. Now that is something I could pay attention to."

"I don't exactly solve mysteries," Steph corrected. "I just-."

Lester cut into the conversation, talking over top of whatever Steph had been about to say. "Don't listen to her. She solves mysteries all the time. Just last week she solved the mystery of who'd been eating all the leftovers from the break room fridge."

Steph, I noticed, sent him a look that was half eye roll and half glare, a peculiar combination, but certainly beyond my comprehension. I guess I had to be there to understand.

"Anyway," Hank interrupted, sliding Lester's laptop over so that it now sat in front of himself. "We're here to crack a different case. The case of Amabel's mother and her reason for being here." He tapped away at the laptop and brought up the office we'd been in yesterday with the massive Tank. Now he was in there with Mom. And Mom wasn't looking nearly as nervous as she had on the screen yesterday. Why was that?

"We'll keep that running silently," Lester explained, getting up and wheeling my chair around so that it was right next to Hanks. "In the meantime, we've got some bits and pieces we need to confirm with you from the previous meetings."

For the next twenty minutes they showed me clips of Mom talking to various employees, by which I mean clips from the meetings she'd already had with the employees, and asked me questions about Mom and life and stuff. It was all pretty straightforward, except there was something weird about the sound recording with the clips. It kept cutting out when Mom seemed to mention the person she was trying to get in contact with. How strange is that? Every single time. Eventually I managed to find a hole in the conversation where I could ask about it.

"Why does the sound always cut out when she says the person's name?" I asked, looking up at Hank and Lester. They seemed to be the ones in charge on this. Hal was a bit of a gopher guy and Steph was pretty much just observing without comment.

Surprisingly, Lester and Hank looked to Steph before Hank replied, "We thought it would be safer if you didn't know the name of the person. You never know what could happen, you know?"

No, I didn't know, but I nodded my agreement anyway. I didn't think I could persuade them to tell me the name of the person Mom was trying to get a hold of when they're sprouting off that logic. So I turned to Steph, who, I noticed, quickly looked away and pretended not to have been staring at me.

Odd.

"What do you think, Steph?" I asked, turning back to face the table and take a drink of the water they had provided me with. Then something hit me. I had no idea what kind of consultant she was. I'd assumed she was part of the mystery solving team, but maybe she wasn't. She hadn't added in a single comment on the findings we'd made today. Maybe she was actually a supervisor. Maybe these guys weren't actually allowed to be alone with minors. With that thought in mind I immediately got up and moved my chair further away from them. I watched as Steph, too, moved her chair back to the table so that we were no longer crowded in the one corner. She looked at me curiously.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yep. Fine." Freaked, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. Yep. That's me. Take the first letter of each word and they spell fine. See? F-I-N-E. "So what do you think about my Mom?"

Steph sighed and leaned forward her fingers twitching in the direction of the muffins still in the middle of the table. "I think she's desperate to contact this person and all this hoop jumping is getting to her. She doesn't deal well under pressure and given that things are not going to her plans at the moment, I'd say she's under enormous pressure."

"What do you suggest?" Hank enquired, for the first time _not_ typing on the laptop. Jeez, he was like those kids who text all the way through class. Not me. I totes don't text through class. It wastes too much credit. I find it far more economical to eBuddy through class. By which I mean I soooo pay attention in class.

"Grant her limited access to the person," Steph was saying. "Supervised, of course. We don't want to leave a gaping access hole for her to-." She broke off when she caught sight of my face. I'm not sure what it looked like, but it felt like I was wide eyed. Mouth was closed, thankfully. But whatever she saw made her stop.

"Right," Lester inserted, clearly tense. "Supervised access to be on the safe side. Gotcha."

They were implying that Mom might be dangerous. That was at once hard to believe and worrying. Was I safe with her? Was anyone I made contact with? Was Mom some kind of vigilante? _Crap_. I can't deal with all these uncertainties. _Double crap_. That's what Mom always says. _Please_ don't tell me I'm turning out to be like Mom after all? I don't want to obsess over miniscule details! I want to be free!

All of a sudden there was a warm hand on the back of my neck. The thumb was rubbing soothing circles. With my eyes practically popping out of my head from the contact from behind when I could see all the people who had been in the room with me, I took a deep shuddering breath. "That's it, kiddo, breathe," came a deep, smooth voice from above me. "Deep breaths. There's nothing to fear. We won't let anyone hurt you."

"Umm..." I managed to murmur. "Who are you?"

The hand left the back of my neck and the chair next to me was pulled out and quickly filled with a tall Latino man with dark brown eyes, dark brown shoulder length hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and the same black uniform as everyone else. Hell, let's just cut the crap and say he was _dark_. And kinda scary with his cool, calm and collected attitude. Is rude of me to think of him as cucumber guy? As in cool as a cucumber? Too bad, I'd already thunk it.

Lester burst into hysterical laughter. Slapping his knee. Banging on the table. All that jazz.

Blinking, I looked over at him, then to the others in the room, including cucumber guy. There was humour in his gaze. Steph was looking at me in a kind of half pity, half humoured way. And Hank and Hal had their mouths covered and the heads turned so I couldn't see them.

"What?" I finally questioned.

Steph glared at Lester and Cucumber Guy then looked back to me. "You were thinking outloud," she informed me apologetically. "This is Ricardo Carlos Manoso. Or Ranger. My husband. And the owner of this company."

"Ranger. Rangeman," I muttered. "Makes sense." I stuck my hand out for him to shake. "Nice to meet you sir."

Lester, having sobered up some, interjected, "See? I told you she could be respectful. She'd be great on the answering line, don't you think?"

"We're not hiring her, Les," Steph admonished.

Ranger stared into my eyes and spoke as if neither Lester nor his wife had spoken. "It's nice to meet you too, Amabel. How are you finding my team?"

Taken aback, I had to blink several times in an attempt to engage my brain in some actual thinking action. "Um, they're okay, I guess," I mumbled, trying to look away. Why was he asking me about his team? Was he looking for a good review when this was through? "They haven't hurt me or anything."

The corners of his eyes crinkled like he was smiling, but that was the only indication. "Good," he said. "They weren't supposed to hurt you. How old are you, by the way?"

"Sixteen," I informed him, glancing over my shoulder to Hank and Lester (Hal was mysteriously missing). "I'll be seventeen in the spring."

He nodded. "Still in school?"

Across the table, Steph sighed loudly. "Of course she's still in school, Carlos. She's sixteen, not stupid."

"Relax, Babe. We're just talking." He turned to face me again. "You don't mind if we just chat for a while, do you?" I shook my head, afraid of what could happen if I refused. "Great. Are you doing well in school?"

"Carlos, what are you up to?" Steph demanded, leaning forward and propping her arms on the table. "You know all these details, you've got them in a file on your desk. Why are you intimidating the girl?"

My eyes widened. _They have my details and history in a file on his desk?_

"I just thought I'd get to know her personally," Ranger replied calmly. "Since it looks like I'll be seeing a lot more of her now."

I felt like I was at a tennis match, or possibly a ping-pong match. My head swivelled between the two so fast that I felt like it was going to snap off like the pieces of those plastic models you get. What on earth were they on about? What had I gotten myself into? Are they crazy? Am _I_ crazy? Oh gods, I hope I'm not saying all this out loud.

Steph rolled her eyes at her husband. "For Christ's sake, Carlos, she's not mine!"

Silence.

Complete and utter silence.

I had no idea what was happening, but I wasn't sure I liked it. All the guys in the room were staring at Steph, and I'm pretty sure I was too. Why would she even need to make that claim? Duh! Of course I wasn't hers. I was Mom's. I thought that was obvious, given that Mom gave birth to me and all. And then there was the fact that I'd grown up under her care. And that I'd only met Steph like two days ago.

I was about to demand the tell me what the hell was going on when Hal (having mysteriously reappeared) spoke up. "Um... But you said you gave birth to her."

_WHAT?_

"I did," Steph confirmed calmly.

_Oooookay... Maybe she was crazy? Mucho loco? _

I couldn't take it anymore. The pressure building inside me burst out in a confused rant that was quite possibly screamed at the top of my lungs.

"What in the whole, unholy hell are you on about?" I screeched, kicking back my chair and scrambling to my feet. I had to get to an exit somehow, but no matter how I looked at it I'd have to pass at least two big burly men. I stared straight at Steph. "You didn't give birth to me! Mom did! I'm not your daughter! How could you even think that? You need to have her committed!" The last was yelled at Ranger, although he was looking a little confused himself. "She's delusional! You're all delusional! Why the FRACK would my Mom want your help? This is SICK and TWISTED!" The massive black man from yesterday appeared in the doorway. "OH GOD! LET ME OUT OF HERE! All I wanted to do was go to the beach and perv on hot surfer guys!" I turned to face Steph. "YOU DIDN'T GIVE BIRTH TO ME!"

*o*

Leah was in the middle of answering the behemoth's latest stupid question when she was cut off by the sound of screams coming from somewhere nearby. She sat there with her mouth hung slightly open for a moment as she stared toward the closed door in confusion and worry before returning her attention to Tank. He seemed to be distracted by something on his computer screen.

Glancing up at her, he said softly, "Excuse me a moment," and hurried from the room.

This left Leah alone in the building for the first time. The fact that she'd been watched like a hawk from the moment she entered the front door hadn't escaped her notice. The knowledge had prompted her to begin a plan for if she was ever given the chance to escape. She had to break free and try to find Stephanie herself.

She waited a moment to make sure Tank wasn't coming back before slipping from the room and dashing down the hall the way she'd been brought in. Now she just had to figure out where to look.

* * *

><p><em>Thoughts? Please review.<em>


	11. Chapter 11

_After a brief but fruitful interlude during which my brain and my muse came up with a brand new idea for a story (and consequently wrote the first chapter for it), I am back to give you chapter eleven of That Froghurt Guy. I think we're finally getting somewhere by the end of the chapter. So here goes._

**Chapter 11**

Steph could only stare as the young girl she'd given birth to went completely out of her mind. It was no wonder why, either. Imagine being cornered in a room by a little less than half a dozen burly he-men, having just been told that the person who you thought gave birth to you really didn't. In actuality, Steph supposed she was doing quite well in her reaction. She hadn't run screaming from the room - not that she could manage that very easily - and she was still conscious. They were good signs, weren't they?

As she watched, Amabel continued to scream in protestation, her face turning red and her hands gripping the back of the chair she'd been sitting on not long ago. Steph noticed that she used it as a kind of barrier between herself and the rest of the occupants of the room.

"Just calm down, Amabel," Lester was attempting to placate her. "We're not going to hurt you." Then he made one of the worst moves Steph had ever seen him make. He reached a hand out in Amabel's direction. She was sure he'd meant it as a soothing gesture, but in the girls mind it was a threat. Anything they did would be seen as a threat.

"Sit down and we can talk this out," Hank, ever the pragmatic soul, tried, but Amabel wasn't listening. Instead, she was thrusting her chair at Lester's knees, toppling him over, a quick scramble positioned another chair inner grasp and she began aiming for Hank.

Her breathing was laboured and there was a wild look in her eyes. She was acting like a caged animal. "Stay back," she warned, her gaze swinging from Hank, to Hal, to Carlos, to Steph before fixing on the door. "Leave me alone."

"Hank, Lester, Hal, leave," Steph commanded, hiking her thumb at the door. "Carlos, sit down and shut up. And Tank, bring Leah in here." As each command was given the men hopped to it like the well trained soldiers they were. Finally, Carlos was seated in the chair next to Stephanie, leaving Leah a clear path to the door if she so chose to leave.

"You can leave if that's what you really want," Carlos informed her. "No one will stop you. That card will let you out of the building and you never have to return."

She stared at him suspiciously. Like this was some kind of ploy to lull her into a false sense of security before dragging her into a holding cell.

Stephanie let out a sigh. "Would you prefer if Carlos left?" she asked. "We really would like to talk to you about this so that you understand."

*o*

I stared into her eyes, trying to figure out things that I had no clue about. If she really had given birth to me that would make her my biological mother, right? That would mean that Mom and Dad lied to me all these years. But then Stephanie had told her husband that I "wasn't hers." What exactly did that mean? Was she my mother or wasn't she? This woman needed to get her story straight.

Glancing from her to Carlos and back, I took a deep breath, trying to restore a sense of calm – if that was even possible right now – and get some air back into my lungs. I felt my shoulders heave with the effort of breathing as I continued to flit my gaze back and forth, trying to make my decision. I wasn't sure if I trusted Stephanie, but I was pretty darn certain that I didn't like Carlos. He had this weird expression on his face, like he was masking all his emotions. Freak. Finally, I settled my gaze on Steph and told her my decision. "Carlos is out, but I want Hank in here."

They both blinked at me, then at each other. Yeah, I'd confused them. I had a tendency to do that sometimes. I gave me the advantage of surprise and gave me a least a moment to take stock of the situation or whatever I needed to do at the time. At the moment, I just need a moment to breathe without them staring at me. It's kinda creepy having them watch as I tried to put myself back together. What made it worse was that it was their fault.

"Are you sure you want Hank?" Steph finally asked me as Carlos stood to leave. "Most people ask for Lester."

_Yes_, I thought. _Which is exactly why I asked for Hank. _I'd sensed that Lester quickly became the favoured guy. He was easy going, quick to laugh and appeared to have all the characteristics of a mischief maker. I could definitely see any other girl asking for Lester to be present in a situation like this. He acted like a dopey older brother. "I'm sure," I assured her, nodding my head. "Hank, not Lester." My decision for Hank had been made easier by the fact that he seemed to be looking out for my best interests. It started with the sunscreen and tan advice. Then yesterday he was the one to suggest that they explain the situation to me.

So once we were all settled at the table, me my side with a clear view of the door and an easy path to get there, Steph and Hank opposite me. Steph looked concerned, eyeing me cautiously and fidgeting in her seat. Meanwhile Hank had an expression of masked confusion. He didn't quite understand why he was here. I didn't quite understand why I was here either. If they weren't looking for my help with understanding Mom what were they after? And why were they lying to me about my birth in order to get it?

I folded my hands on the table top and looked Steph directly in the eye for the first time since my freak out. "What the hell is going on?" I demanded through clenched teeth. She opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off. "Don't spin me any of your bogus lies. I want the truth."

Slowly, she took a deep breath in, absently rubbing the curve of her stomach. "I gave birth to you," she said calmly.

"Bull shit!" I yelled. "Stop lying!"

"I'm not lying," she explained. "I gave birth to you."

"You're not my mother." My hands, which I had worked so hard at relaxing, were once again clenched in fists on the table top. If I wasn't careful I'd start thumping them down in frustration. I retracted my hands from the table and lay them on the arms of the chair I was in, gripping the padding hard to keep from doing anything rash. Hank followed the movements with wary eyes, probably assessing the situation and the likelihood of me going berserk and striking out at one of them.

"No," Steph said softly. "I'm not your mother."

"Then why do you keep telling me you gave birth to me?" I demanded harshly.

She took another deep breath. "Because I did."

"You didn't!"

Steph shook her head and looked over at Hank, like he was going to be of any help. He look just as clueless as I felt. "Maybe we should wait for Leah," she suggested, still looking at Hank, but I had a feeling the statement was directed at me. "She could probably explain it better than me."

I rolled my eyes at her. "Not to mention I could tell if she was lying to me," I retorted. "I don't know you from a bar of soap."

"I'll go see where Tank is," Hank supplied, rising from his chair before either of us could tell him to stop. He didn't even have to leave the room though. As soon as he opened the door, Tank was standing there.

"She's escaped," I heard him say quietly to Hank.

Escaped. That sounded to me like they were holding her captive. Not that it surprised me, given recent events. I mean, come on. They must all be insane. Maybe I was actually playing with the inmates of a mental institution. That would explain all this crazy talk.

"How could she have escaped?" Hank was asking.

Tank gave him a look that immediately shut him up. It was plain to see who was in charge in that relationship. "Just don't let Amabel leave. We need to get this sorted today." With that, Tank pulled the door closed, leaving Hank staring at the back of it.

"So," I said. "Tell your story. If you really gave birth to me – which I still don't believe, BTW – how is it I ended up with Mom?"

She sighed. "I was in college. A sophomore. And your Mom had recently graduated and gotten married. I'd shared a dorm with her for a year and we were kind of friends, so we kept in touch. One day we met for lunch, it was pretty late in the semester. She was telling me about how much she and her husband wanted to have a baby, but no matter how often they tried or what the conditions were like when they did, she couldn't fall pregnant. Apparently she'd been to a gynaecologist the week before and told that it was physically impossible for her to fall pregnant."

Okay. That was a bit confusing. But I think I was starting to see where this was going.

"It really broke my heart to see her so down. She really wanted to give James a child. The tension of the situation was hurting their relationship. So I made her an offer. I did it without thinking about the consequences for myself, but she'd hurriedly thanked me for the offer and called James to let him know the news. After that things happened fairly quickly. By the end of the semester I was pregnant. I went home for the holidays, promising to keep in touch with her. I figured I could spend this vacation at home and pretend everything was normal. Hopefully I wouldn't start to show before the next semester started. I did continue to go to school. I got through another semester no worries, but there was no way I could go home for vacation now. Everyone would know. The 'Burg would look on me with even more disgrace than they already did. So I stayed with Leah for the four weeks, and then continued living there until the baby was born. You. Until you were born.

"I'd had a choice in regards to my schooling for that semester. I could either continue for as long as I was comfortable and then just allow myself to fail overall. Or I could just defer. Given that I was planning on telling my family that I'd failed the semester anyway, it seemed logical to do the former. So I failed. And spent time getting my body back to normal. When I finally returned home after college no one was any the wiser."

I stared at her as she grew quiet. Apparently that was the end of her story. It didn't really answer all the questions zooming around my head. Like, sure, she explained how she gave birth to me but, how I'm actually Mom's. But there were bigger questions here. Really massive questions looming over my head. She was ignoring the pink elephant in the room.

"Who is my mother?" I asked her, articulating each word very carefully to avoid any confusion.

"Leah is," she said, readily enough.

"Leah is my Mom," I agreed. "Who is my biological mother."

Steph looked up at me. "Leah."

A growl of frustration ripped from my throat and I felt the urge to start pacing, which I more than happily gave in to. It was much easier to not leap across the table and shake them if I was moving aobut.. "I don't understand!" I exclaimed. "How does that work?"

"Surrogacy," Hank said in a hushed tone. "Leah's egg, fertilised with James's sperm was implanted into Steph's body."

I glanced up from my pacing, pausing for a mere moment to see if Steph confirmed it. She nodded politely, rubbing her stomach again. And just like that, all the wind went out of my sails. I plonked my body back in the chair and stared at the table. "Oh," I murmured. "That must be what Mom was referring to at the beach."

At that moment an anguished cry – a very familiar anguished cry – carried through the closed conference room door, making both Hank and Steph sit a little straighter in their chairs. I, on the other hand, slumped a little lower. Mom was so embarrassing sometimes. Probably, she could have saved us all this trouble and confusion by, I don't know, letting the big burly men know why she was here? They seemed perfectly okay with it now that it was all out there. Maybe if she'd said something about it we could have gotten it over with days ago and gone to the beach, rather than pussyfoot around telling lies all over the place.

"NO!" I heard Mom cry out. "I need to find Steph! Let go of me!"

I looked from Steph to Hank and asked, "Is it alright if I go see what's going on?" They nodded their ascent, not that I was going to sit around twiddling my thumbs if they said no, and I made my way to the door. I opened it and calmly stuck my head out. Lester was standing beside the door but none of the other men who'd been there earlier were anywhere in sight.

"What's up, Amabel?" he asked

"I heard my Mom," I informed him. "Are they bringing her this way?" He pointed toward the other side of the room, and sure enough, there was Mom, held on both arms by more big burly men, with Tank trailing behind them. I stuck my hand into the air and waved. "Mom, relax," I called. "She's over here."

Her head shot up and her eyes pinned me to where I stood. That was the beginnings of panic face. _Joy_. "Amabel?" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

I shrugged and leaned against the door frame, trying for casual and almost succeeding. "Oh, you know, this and that. Learning about my birth mother. That kind of thing."

Aaaaaaand she fainted. Just like that. Good thing the BBMs were holding her up.

* * *

><p><em>Please take the time to review. It's writer fuel.<em>


	12. Chapter 12

_Okay. No more distractions by other stories this time around, but I did have a small battle with writer's block (see my Day 86 photo on deviantart under the name Becleigh if you don't believe me). Luckily, Shreek saw my photo and came to the rescue, providing me with a description of Ranger's nasty habit. _

**Chapter 12**

By the time Mom came to we were all spread around what they called the break room. The two unnamed BBMs (Big Burly Men, isn't it just so much easier to shorten everything?) had carried her in and dumped – okay, more like placed her, or laid her out – on the couch before retreating, taking with them any other random BBMs that were already in the room when we invaded. Moments later, I was sitting cross legged on the floor next to my mother's head while the Rangemen and Steph attempted to stay as far away from us as possible while still being in the room.

Except that Carlos guy.

He had a nasty habit of inching closer. He'd started out on a chair on the opposite side of the room, then stood and went to the window for a few moments. Then went to talk to the Rangemen in low hushed tones so I couldn't decipher what he said. Then he returned to his chair, shifting (closer) to get comfortable. He then repeated the process. Get up to get a drink... move the chair closer as he got "comfortable." Find better reception in the room to place a phone call... move the chair closer as he got "comfortable." Notice the chair was slightly shorter on one leg... switch chairs to one that was closer. In twenty-two minutes he'd managed to move a metre closer than he had been. I mean, seriously? Who was he fooling?

The Rangemen just looked bewildered while Steph looked just about ready to facepalm.

Not that I couldn't figure out he wasn't acting normal without their reactions, I mean, he was totes just being creeeeeeeepy. He might've been acting like a squirrel on a caffeine overdose, but he had a weird look in his eyes like that lion I once saw in the zoo trying to get some meat from up in a tree. Wasn't sure how to get it, but it wasn't going to just leave it there. I decided the best action was to keep my head down and keep watching out of the corner of my eyes. If he got within two metres, I was totes going to stomp on his balls.

I let out a mental sigh that was both relieved and frustrated. On the one hand, I felt much better knowing I had some sort of plan. On the other, he shifted his chair around again under the pretext of getting a better angle to talk to his wife. The wife who had stayed in the same spot the entire time. Not moving – unless you count the fist clenching she was doing.

Adjusting my position on the floor, while keeping one vigilant eye on Carlos, I heard a soft intake of breath followed by Mom murmuring my name as a question. I returned my full attention to her face to find her looking at me with sad eyes.

"This isn't how it was supposed to happen," she told me quietly.

"I know, Mom," I told her. "Dad was supposed to tell me." She nodded and looked like she wanted to say something, but I worked quickly to keep her from reawakening my frustration with her. "Did you seriously drag me all the way here to try and find a way to tell me about a woman I don't really need to know about let alone know in person?"

She opened her mouth to reply but someone spoke before she could.

"You can't lie, Mrs. Hathwick."

Looking quickly around the room, I realised it was Tank who's spoken. He was watching Mom intensely. Almost as intensely as Carlos was watching me – the damn guy was going to laser away my brain with his eyes if he wasn't careful.

"How did you get in here?" Mom asked me, avoiding the question.

"We'll get to that later," Carlos intercepted, standing up and taking three steps toward us. I adjusted my position again so that I could easily jump up and easily carry out my plan if he took another step. He must have noticed my movement and seen some kind of intent look on my face, though, because he stopped where he was. "Answer your daughter's question," he commanded Mom.

Hesitation. On Mom, verbal hesitation looks like this: a brief opening of the mouth, followed by ocular shifting, a brow furrow and finally, speech. But not what she was originally going to say. "Yes. It was the best solution I could think of."

She did so much as twitch her hand toward her neck. That meant that either she was telling the truth, or she'd asked herself a mental question during her hesitation to which this was the honest answer. There was one way to find out.

"The best solution to telling me about the whole surrogacy thing was to drag me across the country and flounder around trying to gain access to the woman while I bum around town waiting for your endless meetings to finish so I can go to the beach?" I enquired. She hesitated again and I threw my hands in the air. "For God's sake, Mom! Could you give me an honest to goodness answer here? I'm so _filthing confused_ right now!"

"Filthing?" Lester piped up.

I shot him a glare. "She won't even let me say WTF. You think she's gonna let me say the actual word?" Turning back to Mom, I gave her an imploring look. "Why are we here?"

Rather than answer me directly, she looked to Steph (she had to look around Carlos though, because he was hovering between us and her like a Rottweiler itching to have a go at the postman. Mom sat up a little so that she could see better. "I need your help," she beseeched of the woman. "I need you to look after Amabel while I try to work out what's going on with James's death."

She scratched her neck, but I didn't say anything. I may have double crossed her by attempting to help the Rangemen to figure out what she was lying about, but she was still my mother, and I didn't want to harm her seemingly fragile state of mentality. She'd already fainted once today, anymore stress and she might just crack. I didn't really want to be visiting my mother in a mental institution during my senior year of high school.

Just to make sure no one else caught it, I glanced around at all the Rangemen. No one was even looking this way anymore. All eyes were on Carlos and Steph. Except Steph. Steph had locked eyes with Mom.

I looked over too.

"Why can't I just stay at home?" I asked.

"I don't want you to be vulnerable to any fallout," she said. That was the complete and utter truth. Not so much as a finger twitch. I tried to silently ask her what the hell was going on, but she wasn't receptive to my brain transmissions. Somehow, I think it was a voluntary thing – like she just clicked ignore on the receiver or something – because she was avoiding my gaze pretty steadily. She rearranged herself on the couch and patted the cushion next to her for me to sit down with her. I eyed the distance between the cushion and Carlos. It was less than two metres. I was inclined to deny the offer until Steph pressed her husband into a chair and dragged a chair over closer herself.

"She can stay here," Steph assured Mom, leaning forward to pat Mom's hand reassuringly. "We'll make sure she's safe, but you should probably tell us about James's death. We might be able to help with that too."

_Bunch of do-gooders_, I thought to myself, rolling my eyes as all the Rangemen perked up. They were like a bunch of dogs when they hear their owner playing with the can opener and a tin of dog food. Ears pricked. Backs straight. Tails practically wagging in anticipation. I didn't look to closely, but I suspected they might be salivating in their mouths. Suddenly, I was hit with an almost overwhelming urge to pet them on the heads and say, "Good boy!" in that annoying sing-songy voice you can't help by use on animals and children under the age of five.

To my astonishment, Mom tried to deny them the information. Hadn't she told me, just two days ago, that she wanted their help with finding out about Dad's death? She had. And I don't blame her. The circumstances were suspicious but no one had been able to convince the police to investigate. They insisted that all the recent deaths were accidents. I was starting to suspect they were the ones killing people just so they had something interesting to do. Ridiculous, I know.

I lay my hand on top of Mom's, effectively halting her words, and told Steph and the Rangemen (I deliberately directed a total of none of my comments toward Carlos) about how Dad had died and about the other deaths and the police stance. By the time I was coming to the end of our tale, Mom was gripping my hand hard. I glanced over at her and she sent me one of those tense 'thank-you' smiles. When I was finished, I was subjected to question time where the Rangemen asked all the questions under the sun and Mom and I tried to answer them as best we could. Wisely, Carlos chose to keep his trap shut. I wouldn't have answered his questions if he had asked them, anyway.

Finally, they'd gleamed all the information from us that they could and Carlos sent Hal, and Tank from the room with a meaningful look. I noticed he tried to use the same look on Lester, but Lester sent an equally meaning-laden expression back. This prompted a brief, silent argument at the conclusion of which Lester folded his arms and sat down in a chair defiantly. Hank was also still in the room and I had a feeling that was because I'd asked for him earlier, but I couldn't be sure.

"There's more," Hank said, as if responding to the conversation that finished full minutes ago. "Amabel has recently been stalked and had her boyfriend's car blow up right in front of her."

"Not my boyfriend," I mumbled, staring at gun magazine on the coffee table in front of me.

Lester's head jerked up. "We should cover her," he said. "A one or two man tail at all times when she's not in the building."

Carlos nodded. "Hank."

That was seriously all he said. One word. Not even really a word. A name. What happened to Mr. Chatty who walked into the conference room and started trying to get to know me? Maybe he wasn't interested now that he knew I was no relation to his wife. He was such a lap dog.

"Hank's supposed to be covering the gun range this fortnight," Lester countered. "He can't run that and trail a teenage girl around."

"Then you do it," Carlos commanded. "And while you're at it take care of her accommodations." And he walked out. I would have liked to say he stormed out, but it wasn't true. In fact, it could almost be described as a saunter, only the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

After he'd left Steph spent a moment looking between me and Mom and the door trying to decide if she should follow him or not. Eventually, Mom made her decision for her.

"We should go back to the hotel," she mentioned. "Amabel needs to get her things, and I should head back as soon as possible." Steph nodded and stood to hug her. "Take care of my angel."

We were just about to exit the break room, with Steph leading the way, when she turned to face us. "Why me, Leah?"

I sent her a _'Really?'_ look. Even I could work that one out. "You gave me life," I explained lamely, and had to continue when she looked confused. "You gave me life when Mom couldn't. It serves to reason that you could keep me alive when Mom can't." I paused a moment. "Not that I believe it's that dangerous for be back home, but if it makes Mom stress less, I suppose I'll have to deal."

*o*

Carlos was in his office when Steph finally caught up with him. "A pout isn't a good look on you, Carlos," she informed him, lowering herself into one of the visitor's chairs.

"I'm not pouting," he replied tersely, typing firmly on his computer keyboard.

"You're definitely sulking," Steph countered.

He glared at her without moving his head. "I'm not sulking," he snapped. Then, realising what he was doing, and who he was talking to, he softened his tone. "Why didn't you just tell me the whole thing yesterday?" he asked.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Like that would have avoided you flying off the handle? Besides, you jumped to your own conclusions before I could say another word." He said nothing, concentrating on his screen. Steph watched his jaw tick for a minute or two before hefting herself back out of the chair and rounding the desk. She situated her considerable girth between her husband and the computer screen, successfully gaining his attention, and held his face between her hands. "I did what I did because she was a friend and she so desperately wanted a child," she told him, looking deep into his chocolate-pool eyes. "I did what I did because if I hadn't, their relationship might not have survived. If you had to choose between watching your friends marriage break up or helping them in any way you could, which would you choose?"

"Babe, this isn't lending a hand at a dinner party we're talking about here. You changed your whole life for them."

"It was temporary," Steph countered. "And I was happy to do it." Carlos went to say something but she cut him off. "If we desperately wanted a baby, but I wasn't able to get pregnant, how grateful would you be if Mary-Lou offered to be our surrogate?" she asked him.

In reply, he dragged her down to sit across his lap and kissed her thoroughly until she was out of breath. "I knew there was a reason I loved you, Babe."

* * *

><p><em>"What?" I hear you ask. "Where's the cliffie?" Well, I was feeling extraordinarily nice today. Don't forget to review.<em>


	13. Chapter 13

_Sorry it took so long! First there was the writer's block. Followed swiftly by the fact that Kresley Cole's new book "Lothaire" came out. I finished it yesterday morning, and by yesterday afternoon I was writing this. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 13**

BAM!

No, that's not the sound of a blonde, a red head and brunette walking into a bar, although I do like that joke. That is the sound of my mother's brown station wagon _exploding_. That's right. It exploded. Where the hell has my luck gone these days? I swear, a month ago I had a perfectly normal life. The only thing that might have exploded a month ago would be a can of baked beans if it was left on the grill too long at a friend's party – we were wild like that. Now I stood at the door that lead from the hotel lobby to the parking lot, staring at the flaming wreckage that was once my mother's mode of transport.

We'd driven straight back to the hotel to get our stuff together and part ways, Lester trailing us every step of the way. No word of a lie. He was like a shadow, even stood outside our door like a bouncer while we packed up. I can't say I was too annoyed at the closeness of him, I mean, he has a righteous body and he's strong. He carried both my and Mom's over packed suitcases down the hall to the elevator, beckoning us in first. That was the only time his presence bugged me. In the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed he'd turned to me, a serious look on his face. "I need to ask you something," he informed me. I'd simply gulped, and gestured for him to go on. "Why did you choose Hank?"

Was he _serious?_ How old was this guy? Forty-ish, give or take, right? And he was jealous because I chose someone else over him? He needed to grow up, put on his big boy pants, and step out of the sandbox. _Why did I choose Hank?_ Puh-lease! I gave him an incredulous look. "Why does it matter?"

"I need to know why you chose to ally with Hank," he stated, which roughly translated to, _what can I do to make you like me more than him?_

Rolling my eyes, I patted his arm softly and said, "It's okay, Lester, I'm not picking favourites just yet."

"I'm not worried about that," he said (bravely), "Just tell me, why Hank?"

"Surprise and confusion," I told him. "Simple as that. I chose Hank for the element of surprise and confusion."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "How could you know that by picking Hank you had those elements?"

I grinned and tapped the side of my nose, sidling out of the small box when the elevator doors dinged open. The topic was closed for now, since I was keeping my mouth shut and he was busy hefting weights. We all trundled out to Mom's car so that Lester could put her suitcase in the trunk and then over to Lester's SUV to stow mine. Somewhere along the line we'd decided that it'd be easier to part ways here and I'd catch a lift back with Lester rather than both cars going back to Trenton and then Mom continuing on home. It was logical. And a little bit scary. I wasn't afraid of being away from Mom in a strange place. What intimidated me was the drive back to Trenton in Lester's SUV. Just me and him in a box with wheels with ample opportunity for him to try to get information out of me and try to win me over. A ridiculous notion really, considering the fact that I already liked him – not that I was going to tell him that.

So once everything was stowed we trundled along inside so Mom could check us out of our room.

That's when the explosion happened.

The door had only just closed behind Lester – who insisted on being at the end of the line – the car exploded, making the ground quake just a little. Startled, I spun around, staring wide eyed at the flaming vehicle in the middle of the parking lot. My breath caught in my throat as I watched the car die, thinking of the history we'd shared. That was the car Dad had taught me to drive in. There was a blood stain on the backseat from when I'd brained myself on the concrete path at the park. The boot had forever smelled of feet after I'd left my soccer boots in there for a week when I was seven. All that was gone now. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't survive, what with the fire licking up from it in an attempt to reach the sky.

"That was my car!" Mom breathed over my shoulder as we moved closer to the glass doors to look out. "Gone."

Somehow, I managed a faint giggle, mentioning to Mom in an almost matter-of-fact tone, "I bet that wasn't in your plan."

Lester was on the phone, probably to that Carlos-Boss guy, letting him know that he wouldn't be back as soon as he hoped and that he should delay preparations of his best scowl until further notice. Whatever. All I knew for certain was that he was talking quietly into the phone with his back to us. When he was finally done with his phone call Mom was on the brink of a freak out... again. I was trying to calm her down, telling her that everything would be alright, that we would work it all out, but, as usual, she wasn't listening. I was just about to usher her away from the door when Lester rejoined us.

"The Fire department and police are on their way," he informed us dutifully. "We'll sort this out and then organise a car for you to get back to Minot."

"She could always fly back," I suggested. "Once she's there she can use my c-."

KABOOM!

We all jumped, racing back to the glass door to peer out. I was trying to see out past Lester's bulk, but it was a futile effort, he was too big, blocking off the entire viewing space. Suddenly, he swore and pulled his cell back out of his pocket. Still not moving while he hit a few buttons and held it to his ear, he said tersely, "We've got another problem."

_What?_ I was craning my neck now, trying to catch even a glimpse of what had exploded this time. Was it just Mom's car again? Was it a car next to hers? Sirens were peeling through the air, blocking out my ability to think straight. I hate sirens. Loathe them. They remind me of all the bad things in the world, like sickness and carnage and death and crime. It brought back the memories of Dad's death, waiting for the ambulance and police to turn up. I blinked away the memories, there was no use in getting all upset about something that's in the past. As my vision cleared, I realised that Lester had exited the building and I could now see through to the parking lot. And the second flaming car. The one that was approximately where Lester's SUV was. _Ah hell._

I slipped out the door and made my way over to where Lester was talking to a plainclothes policeman. He had dark shaggy hair and a furrowed brow. His faded jeans were slung low on his hips and his t-shirt looked professionally rumpled. He had his little notebook and pen out but wasn't taking any notes. As I approached I could hear the teasing in his voice.

"You're absolutely certain that this has nothing to do with Steph?" he questioned Lester.

"Positive," Lester said shortly.

The cop gave Lester an incredulous look. "Come on, man," he said, dropping his hands to his sides. "Two cars exploded and one of them was a Rangeman Black. You can't possibly tell me she isn't here. Where'd you hide her? In the hotel lobby?"

"Steph is back at Rangeman," Lester informed him.

I stepped up beside Lester then, momentarily going unnoticed. When Lester glanced down at me I asked, all innocent like, "Mom's car is totalled, isn't it?" As if in reply he looked over at the charred mess. I followed his gaze, acknowledging that no car could bounce back from that. "Yeah, that's what I thought. What about yours?" We both travelled our gaze over the lot until we reached the still lightly flaming SUV. "Yep." Sticking my hand in my pockets, I just stared at the streams of water hitting the SUV. It was mesmerising, watching the water turn to steam.

"Who's this?" the officer asked Lester, regaining my attention. He was scrutinising me with his brown eyes, searching my face for something, like I was familiar. "She looks almost like Steph did in high school." Oh, now I get it. He's a friend of Steph's.

Lester looked like he was trying to control the urge to punch the cop in the face, not that I could blame him. I was getting annoying vibes from him. He was really nosey and didn't seem to be doing his job. "I'm just some kid he's gotta keep an eye on," I told the cop. "Do you need a statement from my Mom?" I chin pointed at the remains of her car. "That's hers. I can go get her if you like."

I was about to turn to do just that when Lester caught my shoulder. Looking up into his face I saw he had a mischievous glint in his eye. "You stay here with Officer Morelli. Tell him your version of events, I'll get your mom." And then he leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Just don't mention your specific relation to Steph."

There was relative silence between me and the officer once Lester left. He was still eyeing me suspiciously, but I was ignoring his gaze, I just kept my hands in my pockets and rocked back on my heels. I could almost feel the questions he wanted to ask bludgeoning my body, trying to get me to talk. So talk I would. Of course I wouldn't talk about what I'm pretty sure he wanted me to talk about - the fact that I look similar to Steph, which I knew and I might have found suspicious if it weren't for the fact that Mom looked similar to Steph as well. Actually, what was with that? Were they secretly related? What a plot twist that would be! And I bet Gotta-Be-At-The-Centre-Of-Everything- Carlos would be furious! The thought made me almost hope it was true.

Anyway, Officer Morelli was still looking at me and I was still gazing off at the SUV which was down to smouldering by now.

"So we'd just been up to our hotel room to pack up our stuff," I started, at the same time he said, "He told you not to mention Steph, didn't he?" Because I felt it would probably piss him off, I ignored the question. "We decided to pack our luggage away in the cars before checking out," I continued. "No sooner had we all made it back in to the lobby then there was a massive explosion. We were all kinda just staring at Mom's flaming car and then the other one exploded."

He wrote it all down with jerky motions of his pen against the paper. "That's it?" he asked. "You didn't see anyone? You didn't check the cars?"

I shrugged. "I wasn't looking," I told him. "I'm fifteen and on vacation, what do you expect?"

"So you're not allowed to mention Steph." That was an abrupt topic change.

"No, I'm allowed. I just don't see what the point of mentioning her is." I scratched my arm through my dark grey mesh top. "I mean, I don't know you or how you know Steph, so I really have no starting point."

He hurumphed at that but didn't attempt to provide me with a starting point, so I walked a few paces away and leaned against the hood of a car, taking in the scene. Police tape had been put up and people were gathering behind it, rubber necking. I started to wonder what the locals would think of the fact that there have been three car explosion in the course of one week. Surely that wasn't the norm for them. _Gods help them if it was._ I tried to think back before the string of deaths in my home town to try to figure out if reading about accidental deaths in the paper every other week was what I considered normal now or if it still felt off, but I got distracted by, well, I'm not exactly sure what, but I found myself over near the police tape line.

"Are you okay?" asked a woman in a flowing skirt and peasant top. Her perfectly ordinary brown hair was perfectly pinned at the nape of her neck and she had a handbag hiked over her shoulder. "You look like you're in shock. Maybe you should sit down." And before I knew what was happening she was ushering me through the crowd, one arm around my shoulders the other hand on my forearm in a gesture that should have been reassuring, but to me just felt _off._

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, trying to get out of her grasp.

"Shh," she soothed. "It's okay. I'm going to take care of you."

We were heading around the other side of the building, out of view of the crowds and the officials. There was a clanging in my brain, telling me I had to get away from this lady, but I couldn't quite wrap my mind around what was going on. Was I in danger? I was pretty sure that was a possibility, but she was treating me like I was a little kid, or mentally unstable or something. She didn't even flinch when I accidentally elbowed her in the ribs in my struggle to get her off me.

She steered me around a corner onto a different street. This one was completely empty save for a car waiting at the far end. I started to panic. Everything clicking into place. This was a kidnapping. But why would someone want to kidnap me? The only thing significant about me was that I was on the inside of the crime scene tape. And even that wasn't very significant. It's not like it was my car, or I saw who planted the bombs, assuming it was bombs that blew them up. I was just some kid. Unless this lady was involved in the bombing, in which case I might be significant. They might be targeting me. Which begged the question. Why? This didn't make any sense.

_Stop analysing the ins and outs of why you might be wanted by this person and start trying to figure out how to get away._

By the time I'd realised what I should have been doing, she was opening the door of the car and urging me to sit in the backseat. I resisted, trying to throw her off balance, create a momentary lapse in her hold so I could attempt a getaway, but instead of just pushing harder she swung her handbag at my head. What kind of nice looking lady does that? My vision swam and my head throbbed and she was more successful in shoving me into the car. As I started to fade out of the conscious world and into the land of tweeting birdies flying around my head, I heard a masculine shout from somewhere far away followed by heavy footfalls. The lady swore under her breath, gave me one last shove and kicked my feet into the car, slamming the door shut. A moment later I heard the driver door open and close and the engine start up.

Assuming that this would be a successful kidnapping, I decided the best thing I could do was submit to the blackness beckoning my frazzled head. Maybe if they saw I was injured – even if they did inflict it themselves – they would go easy on me.

My last thought before unconsciousness took over was _why the hell am I referring to her as a them?_

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><p><em>Please take the time to send your thoughts and comments in a review.<em>


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks go, as always, to Shreek, my bestie and beta, who approves of my fun and twisted ideas and ensures that I don't send this out with too many typos (including one particularly awkward one this time around... Yikes!) Also, a special note to Two Guns and a Knife, who is away at the moment but demanded two updates by the time she got back: No, this is not me bowing to your pressure, this is me giving in to my creative urges._

_Anyway, read away._

**Chapter 14**

Not surprisingly, I awoke with a pounding headache in a room I didn't recognise. What did surprise me – at least a little – was the fact that a) I was left completely alone, and b) I wasn't tied or chained to anything. Was I hoping for ropes, chains and gags? No, but I'd seen enough movies to _expect _them. I mean, what kind of lame-ass kidnapper doesn't at least handcuff their victim to the bedpost? The kind that don't intend on keeping their victims too long. As soon as I realised I was alone and untethered, I was on my feet, crossing to one of two doors that lead from the room, the first, unfortunately, lead to a small bathroom. Clean. This was again unexpected. There were no windows in the bathroom, so I couldn't gauge where I might be in the world – not that I would have been able to tell much from the view out a bathroom window, but it'd be nice to know if I was on the ground floor or somewhere higher up, ya know? I quickly backed out of the bathroom and crossed to the door on the other side. It was cracked open – these must be some really ameture-ish kidnappers.

I was about to ease it open just a little more so I could peek out when I heard voices nearby. One female, the other male. I didn't recognise either of them, not that I expected to. Holding my breath, I listened to their quiet conversation, but was disappointed when it was in Spanish; I barely knew enough Spanish to order off a Taco Bell menu. Damn, should have paid more attention in class.

The voices grew nearer, and in a moment of panic, I dashed back to the bed as quietly as I could. Once there, I had a dilemma. I didn't know what position to lie in to make it look believable that I was still unconscious. And furthermore, I didn't know how to control my breathing so that it was at the sleep rate. So I sat on the bed, my back pressed against the wall, hugging my knees to my chest.

And that's how she found me.

She was an older woman, though not grotesquely old, maybe in her fifties or sixties. Her once dark hair was greying elegantly from her temples, her mid-brown eyes gazing at me gently. The moment she saw I was conscious she took her hand off the door handle, opening it wide and stepping into the room far enough that there was a clear path for me to escape if I were so inclined and could find the right amount of speed.

"You're awake," she stated softly, nodding in approval and dipping her hands into the pocket of her apron and drawing my attention to what she was wearing. Black slacks, a navy blue button through blouse with some kind of insignia on the left breast, and her apron – a black and navy patchwork-type affair with various floral prints and spotted fabrics combining to make it look surprisingly sophisticated, or perhaps it was the person wearing it. "How's your head?" she asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

I shrugged and hugged my knees a little tighter. What did it matter to her if my head was okay or not? Wasn't she just going to collaborate with her perfect housewifey-looking friends to torture me until they come to an agreement on my ransom worth with Mom? Surely, my having an aching head would just add to their torture pleasure. At the moment, just playing loud music could cause me to rake my own face of with my fingernails. Okay, maybe I'm being melodramatic, but it did hurt a fair bit, makes me wonder what that woman was carrying around in her handbag.

"Amabel?" she prompted. "Does your head hurt?"

Unable to contain my eye roll, I replied with as much sarcasm as I could muster – which was a lot. "Oh, no," I said. "It's fine. _Super_ really. I _adore_ getting hit in the head with heavy bags. The thrill of waking up in a place I don't know, and not being entirely sure how I got there?" I dropped my knees into a cross legged position and faked a shiver. "Sends chills down my spine it's so exciting. Say, do you mind telling me exactly _why_ I am here?"

The woman's mouth opened briefly, but she closed it abruptly and shook her head, eyeing me in an almost bewildered fashion. Without saying anything at all, she moved back to the door and called out in rapid fire Spanish. I didn't catch a word of it. For me to be able to imitate the sounds she'd made, I'd have to take my index finger, place it between my lips and wave it up and down while I uttered sounds like "Wee wah" over and over. Probably she was telling the man she was talking to earlier to get the first round of torture set up. Why else would they have a man there? To tidy up the house? I don't think so.

Whatever she'd said, it must have required he leave, because I heard a door open and close and then everything was quiet. She returned to her spot in the middle of the room, watching me carefully.

"We have a misunderstanding," she informed me. "My name is Ella. I work for Rangeman; I'm the housekeeper."

I'm pretty sure my eye just twitched. That's not a good sign, is it? "I thought Rangeman was helping me and Mom," I muttered, at once confused and annoyed. "Why would you kidnap me?"

"We didn't kidnap you, dear," she soothed. "We rescued you."

"No." I shook my head. "I distinctly remember being shoved into the backseat of a car by a housewife type woman – whom you are probably in cahoots with - hit in the head with a heavy-ass handbag and falling unconscious as the engine started up. That sounds like kidnapping to me. What does it sound like to you?"

A small smile appeared on her lips, surprising me. "It sounds like kidnapping to me too, however, there are some details missing."

Alright, I have to admit it, she'd gotten my interest. I was curious as to what information was missing. Also, why she was bothering to try to tell me that I hadn't been kidnapped when she just agreed with me that what happened sounded a hell of a lot like kidnapping. I totes don't understand adults sometimes.

"Proceed," I uttered, giving a vague _go on_ gesture with my hand.

Her smile quirked up a little at the corners of her mouth; I was amusing her. Well, it was better than angering her, I suppose. Nothing good ever comes from an angry kidnapper. She looked like she was just about to say something when the soft click of the door opening and closing again stopped her. She peeked through the doorway and seemed to let out a relieved sigh just as Carlos walked in.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I groaned, lowering my throbbing head to my hands and spearing my fingers through my curls. After that self indulgent moment, I snapped my head up and send him my annoyed face. "WTF do you want from me?"

"Watch your language, Princess," he said mildly, though I'm pretty sure there was an implied threat somewhere in there. Maybe something along the lines of 'or I'll wrench your molars from your mouth without anaesthetic. Although, now that I think about it, maybe he was just attempting to be malicious with his princess remark. It might work on his BBMs to get them under control or whatever, but _hello? _I'm a _girl_. What girl wouldn't love to be seen as a princess?

"I'll watch my language when you get the fuck out of here," I retorted.

_Was that a grin I just saw on the Ella-woman's face as she turned away to straighten something on the tallboy?_

Carlos took a step closer to the bed, probably wanting to use his height and bulk as an intimidation factor; it might have worked if I were smarter... or dumber, depending on how you look at the situation. "I'll get the fuck out when you tell me every single thing you can think of about your father."

"Sorry, I'm not religious."

"Your dad," he rephrased. "I need to know about your _dad_."

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared up at him defiantly. "Seriously?" I asked. "You want me to tell you about Dad? _My_ dad? My dead, frozen yoghurt selling dad who's most interesting trait was that he was really good at billiards? You want to know about _that_ father?" _Am I babbling? I think I might be babbling._ "I'm sticking by my earlier assessment that this is one of the lamest kidnappings ever. Couldn't you have just asked me about Dad when I got back to Rangeman, where you will, I understand, be keeping me until Mom figures some stuff out back home?"

"Ella," Carlos said, slightly sharply, not taking his eyes off me. "What is she talking about?"

Ella appeared to be fighting giggles, the corners of her mouth were drawn down in that way people only do when they're attempting to suppress a smile, and she cleared her throat rather vigorously before answering Carlos. "Stephanie agreed to have Amabel stay at Rangeman while Leah went back to Minot to try to sort out her husband's death. I understand there is potential danger for the child."

He snapped his head to the side, glowering at her. "You _know_ that's not what I was referring to." He then muttered under his breath something about a _Santos_ and a _bad influence._ After a moment of anger, he made an effort to calm down, rolling his shoulders as if to loosen them. Before he could say anything else, though, Ella stepped up.

"Back to that misunderstanding I mentioned," she said. "After you were knocked out and shoved into the back of the car, Hank caught up with the car and managed to prevent the woman from driving away with you. His partner, Cal, dealt with hauling the woman to the waiting SUV to be transported back to Rangeman to await interrogation, while Hank, along with Lester, drove back with you in the car the woman had been using."

Trying to take in all the information, which was spoken in English nearly as rapidly as when she was speaking in Spanish, I asked, "So I'm at Rangeman now?" Ella nodded while Ranger looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. "Where's Mom?" She cleared her throat, averting her gaze to Carlos, who had an unreadable expression on his face. "Is she okay?" I asked, starting to worry. What if, while was being almost kidnapped and the men were saving me, someone had abducted Mom?

"Oh, pet," Ella murmured, easing herself down onto the edge of the bed and stroking her hand down the side of my face until it came to rest under my chin. "Don't fret. She'll be alright. She probably just decided to start on her way back to Minot."

Furrowing my brow with incredulity, I demanded of Carlos, "How the hell can you not know for sure?"

I'm not sure if I was expecting an answer, but I definitely didn't get one. In fact, he simply walked out of the room. I kid you not. He just. Walked. Away. I was starting to think he didn't like me. Whoops, sorry about that, I just dripped sarcasm. My bad.

I looked to Ella, but she just shook her head. "Why don't you shower and change clothes then come down to four, the boys and Stephanie will be there. There's some clothes in the dresser, clean towels under the sink. Does your head hurt?"

"A bit," I confessed, feeling the wind seep out of my annoyance and indignity. Truthfully, I was a kinda tired, but I should do as Ella said and go see "the boys" and Steph. At the very least they probably want to have confirmation that I'm okay. And then there was the small matter of figuring out what the hell was going on in my life. "It's not too bad."

She smiled at me and patted my shoulder, dipping her other hand back into the front pocket of her apron. When it emerged it was filled with an asprin bottle. "I trust you know how to be responsible in administering your own pain medication?" she enquired, but then, just to be sure I understood the writing on the little bottle, she explained, "Take no more than two at a time, and no more that six a day. If you have any problems or pain persists go and see Bobby." She set the bottle on the bedside table and was gone in the blink of an eye.

Alone in the room once more, I swallowed two pills and crossed to the dresser. All the drawers were empty, save the bottom one. On the left hand side I found a stack of clothes that were decidedly not intended for me, given their size and the fact that they were men's, complete with boxer briefs – so glad I realised what they were before picking them up. Beside them, by which I mean on the other side of a twenty centimetre gap, I found the clothes Ella had been referring to. I didn't even bother to check if they'd fit, figuring I'd work that out once I was in them (or attempting to get into them), I just bundled them up and took them to the bathroom with me.

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><p><em>As always, I strongly urge you to send your thoughts, comments and appreciation in the form of a review.<em>


	15. Chapter 15

_**c/` Yar Har and fiddle di dee. Being a pirate is alright by me. Do what you want 'cause a pirate is free. You are a pirate! Yo Ho, Ahoy and Avast. Being a pirate is really badass. Hang a black flag at the end of the mast. You are a pirate! c/`** _

_Fact: Listening to "Pirate Metal" music makes me type faster (this is not to say that the story gets written faster, just that when I have words in my head to get onto the screen it happens at a greater rate of knots... hehe... see what I did there? Rate of Knots? Sea humour... ) Anyway, enough distraction for now. You're here for one thing and one thing only:_

**Chapter 15**

"I have _never_ felt so objectified in my entire life," I announced as I stepped into the break room. It seemed it was the congregation hall of choice for these people. I guess I could understand, I mean, it had food, entertainment, the facilities aren't too far away, and, of course, they're close to what appeared to be the main work station. But that's beside the point. "I think I actually appreciate my school uniform now," I told the occupants of the room, not caring that there were unfamiliar faces giving me furtive glances while attempting to look completely absorbed in their magazines and discussions. "I mean, sure, it sucks to have to wear a damn crest and have the school name plastered on my backpack and blazer, and down the side of track pants, but it's more of a school pride thing than anything else, right? What the hell kind of person does _this_ to clothing?"

Turning my back to the crowd, I lifted the back of borrowed t-shirt to show them the back pocket of the jeans I was wearing. There, in bold, embroidered script were the words _Property of Rangeman._

No one said a word.

"That's not all," I continued, yanking the top back down and turning to face them. "It's on the shirt." I pointed agitatedly to the offending writing that adorned the upper left section of my chest. "It's on the socks." My pointed fingers jerked down toward my feet, and then in the direction of every subsequently named article of clothing, including those articles that I was not wearing, but had inspected after noticing the labels. "The windbreaker. The turtle neck. The hat. The underwear. Even the bra." I was vaguely aware of the men cringing at the mention of ladies intimate apparel, but couldn't be bothered acknowledging it. "I feel like a freaking stapler."

Again, there was silence in the room.

I began pacing the space between the small kitchenette and the sitting area. "Am I the only one with such infuriating labels?" I asked them all. "Are you property of Rangeman, too? Or am I just lucky?"

"There are stores of spare clothing similar to the ones you are wearing in various strategic locations throughout the building," someone piped up helpfully. "Having the 'property of' label enables us to identify which clothes are for the building and which are for individual employees."

Spearing him with a look that I hope portrayed the fact that I wasn't actually looking for an explanation of the clothes' purpose, I demanded, "Why on earth would you have need for spare clothes all throughout the building?"

A lot of eyes averted to table tops and blank walls. Someone coughed into their hand. I was about to demand answers when Lester walked in. "What'd I miss?" he asked jovially, swinging the fridge door open and pulling out a number of items. As he placed them on the counter, I felt a silent rage bubbling up from somewhere in the depths of my being, urging me to put sound to it. He turned to face me his face in a pleasant sort of grin, and I felt my eyes narrowing. How dare he be so happy while I was so... owned.

Not sure of exactly what I was going to say, but knowing that I had to lash out at someone or break down completely, I took a deep breath and opened my mouth.

*o*

"Tell us about your father," Hank requested, settling himself into a nearby armchair, legal pad propped against his knee. It was mid afternoon, and after the morning they'd had and the way Amabel seemed to react, they decided that it was probably a lot easier on all of them to conduct the questions in the break room rather than the conference room. "What was he like? What kind of man was he?"

_Damn, I feel like a psychiatrist_, Hank thought to himself, frowning inwardly,_ I _hate_ psychiatrists._

Amabel, who still appeared to be in a foul mood following the discovery of the company name plastered all over her body, crossed her arms and sighed loudly, before sinking further down on the couch. "No," she stated.

He blinked twice in an exaggerated fashion to show his confusion. "Huh?"

"No."

Drawing his eyebrows in and leaning forward a little, he asked slowly, "No... what?" The 'w' sound was drawn out in an attempt to suck her meaning from her, not that technique ever worked, but he had to try it.

She flicked him a slit-eyed glare. "No," she repeated. "I am not telling you about my father."

Hank quickly glanced to Steph, hoping for a helping hand. Steph was a teenage girl once; surely she could get inside Amabel's head and convince her to cooperate? Couldn't she? At seeing look on Steph's face his eyes travelled back to Amabel, silently asking Steph to pitch in. "Uhh..." he uhh...'d, filling the air with his uncertainty.

The sigh Amabel let out now was almost like a visible puff of air; as if someone had turned the interaction into a comic book. Her eyes had grown shiny. Hank wasn't sure if she was annoyed or about to cry. Hopefully the former.

"Why does everyone want to know about Dad all of a sudden?" she asked, reefing the cushion out from behind her and hugging it to her chest. The feel of her tears battering the dam was palpable, but to Hank's surprise she seemed to swallow them back and send her emotions in a completely different direction. Her fingers dug into the cushion, and she wiped her head up to eyed them all, spearing them to their places. "He's gone. He was just a victim. How is knowing what he was like going to help find who killed him?"

"...I," Hank uttered. "Uh... well I... I think..."

"Can't we talk about Mom?" Her tone was grumbly and she was glaring at the coffee table. "I want to talk about Mom."

Unsure of exactly how to deal with a sulky teenager, Hank looked to Stephanie again where she sat cross-legged on the opposite end of the couch. There might have been a small amount of pleading in his expression, but it was only to convince Steph to help. She raised her eyebrows at him in a _you owe me_ fashion and adjusted her position slightly so she was facing Amabel more. Relieved, Hank relaxed back into his cushioned seat.

"Of course we can talk about your Mom," she placated. "What questions do you have?"

_Steph must have missed the memo,_ Hank thought, leaning forward in his chair once more to try to gain her attention once more. It appeared she was diligently ignoring him, however, as she didn't even glance in his direction. They'd been given instructions to learn as much about Amabel's father from the girl as they could, then cross reference that information with their search data in order to gain a more rounded image of the man. Ranger had also deployed a team of men to talk to the family of the other victims to see if they had anything in common – any linking factor that might have put a target on their backs other than the fact that they were all male and all married.

"Where is she?" Amabel asked

Hank didn't have an answer to that. As far as he knew Leah Hathwick was missing. Whether by her own stead or by someone else's, he had no idea, but they were working on trying to locate her.

"According to her credit card she's boarding a plane to North Dakota in one hour," Lester informed the room. "We had contemplated tracking her down and bringing her back here, but she seems determined to get back to Minot and sort this thing out on her own."

Hank found himself stifling a groan as his head jerked sharply to the left at Lester's words, his neck cracking in protest. Lester looked up from lazily flicking his index finger across the screen of his company-issue iPad – _Why didn't I think to bring my iPad instead of pen and paper? I'm such a Neanderthal! –_ and raised a single eyebrow at him. _Smug bastard._

"How," Hank demanded, slapping his inferior note-taking implements on the coffee table.

A grin spread across Lester's features and he fairly bounded out of his chair and across the room to where Hank sat. Perching on the arm of the chair and leaning down so that Hank could see his screen, he performed a series of flicks to bring up what appeared to be a map with a number of little markers on it. "I found this cool new app!" Lester enthused. "All you do is enter your credit card details here – or in our case, Leah's credit card details – and shows you on the map where and when you made your last fifteen transactions. The red one is the most recent and they go through usual colour scale back to green for the oldest. Isn't that just so handy? And then, you can tap on the little marker and it brings up the details!"

"Why would anyone have need for such an app?" Hank asked.

From the corner of the room furthest away from the rest of the group, Hal suggested, "Overbearing boyfriends keeping track of their girlfriend's every move?" Then after a short pause added, "And security personnel tracking down criminals. I wonder if the police know about this app, they could probably benefit from it."

"We're not going to tell them about it," Lester said, giving Hal an incredulous look. "Why on earth would we help them out? If they don't have tech-heads making their jobs easier that's their fault." A few more swipes at the screen brought up a different app. "I also found this one. All you have to do is-"

Amabel sighed loudly and flopped her arms out to the side, the left still holding the cushion which Steph tugged from her hand and added to the pile she was creating behind her back. The woman settled back into her cushion mound with a content look on her face. On the other hand, the girl just groaned and slid to the floor so that her knees were to her chest, her arms coming down to wrap securely around them.

"Why did you let her go?" she asked softly, propping her chin on her arms. "It could be dangerous."

Hank quickly shared a look with Lester and Hal , before asking, "What makes you say that?"

As a reward, Amabel gifted him with a deadpan look. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that her car blew up and someone tried to kidnap me?"

"Story of my life," Steph yawned wriggling back a little further. "The way I look at this is, it's dangerous for you. I mean, you boyfriend's car blew up and someone suspiciously offered you a lift then too, right?" She paused as if expecting a response. "Right. And it was you that was almost kidnapped, not your Mom. She'll be fine. Besides, Carlos has a team following her every move.

Amabel wasn't supposed to know that. Hank sent a slightly panicked look in Lester's direction. What were they supposed to do now? The kid was bound to ask all sorts of questions that they really shouldn't answer. It was one thing to let the kid know that they were keeping tabs of her whereabouts, it was entirely different to inform her that they were, in fact, stalking her mother. Hank watched the implications of Steph's words dawn on Amabel's face. She slowly turned her head to look at Hank, her expression accusatory.

"What?" she seethed.

Without missing a beat, Lester piped up, "So about your dad, we were wondering if you could tell us about what he liked to do in his spare time."

As if in reply, Amabel surged swiftly to her feet and stormed from the room, leaving a tense silence in her wake. Hank swallowed audibly and shared a look with his colleagues. This case looked like it was going to be harder to crack than they'd originally estimated.

"She likes me best," Lester stated almost merrily, breaking the silence.

"She does not," Hank replied defensively.

Steph leaned back over the back of the couch in an attempt to peer out the door after the girl but made no move to get up and follow her. "Shouldn't someone follow her to make sure she's alright?" she asked. "Aren't you supposed to be keeping her in the building?"

For her efforts, she received an exasperated look from Hank. "You think we'd leave her alone in the building if there was any chance she could escape?"

"As I recall-," Steph began, but Hank cut her off, knowing she was about to bring up the Jerry Higgins incident

"Technology has advanced since then," Hank informed her, adopting a superior tone as he stood and pulled his swipe card from his belt. "She may have a swipe card, but it only works on a limited range of doors. While she can get into many of the internal spaces, it will not open the building exits."

A frown furrowed Steph's brow as she began idly rubbing her stomach. "So she can get into the lobby?"

"Of course," Lester confirmed, waving away her question with a carefree air, his attention once more fixed on his iPad screen.

"The lobby entrance only requires swipe card after hours," Steph reminded them, attempting to raise a single eyebrow.

"Dang it!" Hank exclaimed. "Why didn't we think of that?" He was already half way to the door, hoping Amabel hadn't gotten too far. "Lester, deactivate her card," he called over his shoulder. "I'll see if I can catch up with h-." Having reached the doorway, he abruptly cut himself off as he caught sight of Amabel slouched against the wall next to the elevator. She was banging the back of her head against the wall, her hands falling loosely at her side. Still half in the room, he turned back to rest of its occupants who were now staring at him curiously. "What does it mean when a teenage girl bangs her head against the wall?"

Grunting with the effort of getting to her feet, Steph started for the door. "Call Ella," she said. "Tell her to start a cake. Find Carlos, send him up to Ella's apartment." Hank moved aside to let her past. "And then I suppose you should probably get to the bottom of this string of deaths."

Hal spoke then, reminding them all he was still there. "Um, given what's happened in past meetings between Amabel and Ranger, do you think it's wise to-." Steph sent him a pointed look. "Okay, yeah. You're right. I'll go down to interrogation and send him up right away."

*o*

"Cool," Lester murmured, tapping a sliding his fingers across the screen, exploring the features of his new app. This one promised to analyse similarities and differences between the data you input. "Check it," he whispered to Hank, elbowing him in the arm and gesturing to the screen. "Winning."

Hank nodded his appreciation of the time saver, but drew Lester's attention to his own iPad where he was in the middle of creating a graph to display the income of each of the victims.

"Nice," Lester uttered.

The rustle of papers drifted across the conference table from where Tank sat pouring over search print outs, a highlighter in one hand and a biro poised over a legal pad in the other. Lester and Hank exchanged an amused look and _just_ managed not to snicker out loud.

"At least I'm being productive," Tank said mildly without looking up from the page. "Unlike the two of you who appear to have regressed to the mentality of a pair of middle schoolers, playing with their new toys at the back of math class."

"We're being productive," Hank defended, making a swiping gesture on his screen while at the same time pressing a button on the control panel in the middle of the table to bring down the projector screen. Within moments his graph was displayed there. "As you can see, I have established that there is no connection between the victims and their annual income." He puffed out his chest just slightly, proud of his work.

"And wasted time turning it into a graph," Tank drawled, eyeing the attractive layout and eye catching colours. "Just get back to work."

Lester, who's attention had once again been absorbed by the iPad screen, jerked his head up. "I think I have something," he announced excitedly. He tapped on the screen again, nodding to himself. "According to the data I've collected, nine times out of ten the widows have one store that they always do their grocery shopping at."

Tank was practically rolling his eyes by now, clearly fed up with having to deal with them. "How is that relevant?"

He looked back down at his screen as if confirming something. "Give us a sec," he requested. "I'll show you." Turning to Hank, he held out his iPad, displaying a screen filled with highlighted entries. "I need a graph to show the women's grocery trips against a time line. All the women on one graph. Can you do that?"

Hank merely grunted and took the device from him, tapping and swiping almost feverishly for a full minute. "How's th-." The question he'd been asking halted in his throat as the graph appeared on the screen. "Oh."

His interest piqued, Tank leaned forward across the table, trying to see the screen. "What is it?" Hank quickly flicked the graph onto the projector screen so Tank could see it properly. There was a moment of silence while Tank scrutinised the data, trying to find the significance the other two had spotted. "So they tend to shop on the same day," he reasoned. "That's not a cause for suspicion."

Lester leaned over Hanks arm and tapped the screen a few times to bring up the times of the transactions. For each instance that the woman shopped on the same day, the times of the transactions were always within an hour of each other. "That's got to be more than a coincidence."

"You think they killed their own husbands in some kind of Stepford Wives rebellion thing?" Hank suggested.

"Maybe they killed each other's husbands," Lester countered. "After all, we haven't found anything else that connects them." He paused in thought. "I mean, apart from the fact that their husbands all died in what appeared to be accidents."

"Sounds a bit like _Horrible Bosses_," Hank commented.

"Or _Strangers on a Train_," Tank agreed.

"Still think it's irrelevant?" Lester asked. He retrieved his iPad from Hanks clutches and returned to scrutinising the data displayed there. Meanwhile, Tank was still staring at the projected graph, two little frown lines etching themselves in between his eyebrows.

"What about Leah?" he asked. "She's not up there."

A sigh slipped from Lester's lips. "That's the part that doesn't quite fit. Leah doesn't usually shop there, and if she does it's hardly ever on the same day as the other women and rarely within the same time frame." Silence fell once more, everyone seeming to have returned to their previous tasks. Lester began to look beyond the highlighted segments on his screen to those around them. A new pattern began to emerge. "I think I have something else," he announced cautiously. He flicked the highlighted page to the screen for the others to see and began mapping out the new pattern in a different colour. "Whenever they shop at the same time it's followed by another transaction. Much smaller. They're almost identical from person to person."

"Where at?" Hank asked.

"Not sure exactly," Lester replied absently. "But it's in the same shopping complex."

"Maybe it's a Café," Tank suggested. His own research efforts lay on the table, forgotten in the face of much more interesting data. "Check the reference number against the outlets in the eatery first."

Lester did as he was told, quickly searching. Tank and Hank waited, silent and still. This had the potential to be their first breakthrough of the case. Long moments passed before Lester let out a breath. "It's a place called _That Froghurt Guy_," he announced. "What the hell kind of a name is that for a food outlet?"

Hank set his iPad down and frowned at the ceiling. "That sounds familiar."

* * *

><p><em>After writing Hank into this story and playing with his personality a bit, I have come to a conclusion about what kind of qualifications and training he possess. Review and let me know what your thoughts on the matter are. Or just a general review is good too :P<em>


	16. Chapter 16

_My apologies for the late coming of this chapter. First I got distracted by learning how to crochet cables and working out how to represent celtic knots with them. Then, when I finally got to finishing this chapter over fourteen hours ago FanFiction would not allow me access to my account in order to upload. It's here now though. Enjoy._

**Chapter 16**

I couldn't decide who to be angry at. There was the obvious option of my saviours-come-captors, the BBMs and their leader Carlos the Callous. There was the possibly slightly more accurate direction of my Mom, for bringing me here, turning my life upside down and then leaving to play detective back home all alone. There was whoever was doing weird, annoying and dangerous shit to me. And then there was me. I was pretty sure I could find valid reason to be angry at all of the options, the problem was this tight feeling in my chest that was tainting every emotion that tried to surface. It might have been fear, or it could have been something more involved; something more complex that had no simple name.

Frustrated with the men and their insistence that I talk about my dad, I'd stormed from the room and made it as far as the elevators before I realised that I pretty much had nowhere to go and no way to get there if I did have anywhere. A wave of self pity rushed over me as I slouched against the wall. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and just cease to exist for a while. Not forever. Just a month or so. Long enough for all this to blow over. Maybe the world would be better after that.

Of course that would never happen. I was stuck here in this situation whether I liked it or not. And let me just tell you, it was a definite _not_. I was starting to question Mom's reasons for dragging me all the way down here. Did she know something she wasn't telling me (read: us, I may as well include Rangeman in my considerations now, they were playing a pretty big part in my life and it's complications now)? Of course she was, the question was, what. I was pretty sure it had to do with the exploding cars and my attempted kidnap, but my frazzled brain couldn't make much sense of anything at the moment.

I hadn't realised that I had company until a hand gently stopped my head from hitting the wall again – I hadn't realised I was doing that either, for the record. Refocusing my gaze, I found Steph standing next to me, one hand cradling the back of my head. When she saw she had my attention she dropped her hand away and pressed the button for the elevator.

"I'm going up to visit Ella," she informed me. "She's backing a cake. Probably chocolate. Wanna come with? She won't mind." On the one hand, I wanted to be alone right now. On the other, chocolate cake sounded very appealing. As the doors dinged open, I just shrugged and followed her inside. "I just have one request while we're with Ella," Steph mentioned, leaning against the side of the little box. "Don't complain about the "property of" labels you're wearing. It's kind of what she does, and the rest of us enjoy the irony of the labels on the clothes when we wear them. Also, we like Ella. She's the bomb diggity."

There was no helping the sputtered laugh that emerged from my mouth. "Did you just say what I think you just said?" I gasped.

"Bomb diggity?" she asked, a small smile on her face.

"Yeah, that." She nodded. "That's so nineties. No one says bomb diggity anymore. In fact, I've only ever heard it used in that mediocre _Bring it On_ sequel."

Our conversation was cut off when the doors opened and she tugged me out of the elevator to follow her. I found myself in an apartment that felt an awful lot like my Great Aunt Vivian's house. While there was a notable lack of disgusting floral prints covering every surface and there weren't any cats appearing to wrap around my legs in greeting, the homey, grandmothery, bakes-cookies type feel was coming through strong and all the furniture looked like it was inviting you to come sink into it and sleep for a million years – it did so in tasteful, demure upholstery, not sickening prints.

"In the kitchen," came a voice that I recognised from my one previous meeting with the woman.

Steph lead me into a kitchen fit for a restaurant. It was huge and state-of-the-art looking with stainless steel everything. It all gleamed with the high shine only a good clean appliance could give off. I was never much one for cooking or doing anything much in the kitchen, but even I was jealous of this set up. I gawked for a long moment before Ella beckoned me onto a bar stool at the island bench and sat a glass of milk in front of me.

"So you looked pretty down back there," Steph commented casually, nodding her head toward the elevator. "Wanna talk about it?"

I took a sip of my milk, glancing at her over the rim of my glass. The problem with distraction was, I had a hard time picking up where my emotions left off. I know I was angry at someone or something, but I couldn't work up the appropriate feeling to put behind any explanation. "Not really," I said.

She nodded like she understood. "We're here to help you. If you're angry at the guys about something you should let us know so we can fix it. You're going to have to get used to them being around. Especially Lester, since he's been assigned to your tail."

"My tail?" I asked, completely nonplussed.

Steph gave me a look. "You should be grateful you didn't get stuck with Brett," she informed me. "Lester actually talks and engages in conversation like a normal human being. Brett thinks his role is silent observer and he writes absolutely everything into his daily report. It's kinda creepy." She shuddered. "So is it the guys?"

A sigh fell from my lips as I made a realisation. I'd figured out who I was angry at, except it wasn't a who, it was a what. This entire situation was shitting me off. Mom dragging me down here just to dump me on these strangers and make a runner. Those frigging psychos that appeared to be after me. The fact that I apparently needed to have a tail to watch over me. And all these questions about everything I didn't want to think about. I loved my Dad, but I didn't want to think about him. Thinking about him always brought the memory of him lying broken on the basement floor to mind. Sometimes it made me want to scream. Other times I wanted to be sick. Even my fondest memories of him from my childhood were tainted by the horrible scene of his death.

Next thing I knew there was an arm wrapped around me and I was sobbing into Steph's shoulder. When I realised I was crying, I sniffed and tried to stop it, only to cough and start back up again. In my mind I was thinking how ridiculous it was that I was crying over this shit, but I couldn't do a thing to stop it until there was a gentle hand on the back of my neck, squeezing just slightly; it was weird, but reassuring at the same time. I somehow managed to calm myself down and took the proffered tissue gratefully.

"Sorry," I uttered, gazing down at my hands in an attempt to avoid their gazes.

"It's okay to be emotional," a male voice informed me. "You're going through a tough time." It took me a moment, but when I finally realised who it was, I snapped my head up to glare at Carlos. As if I didn't have enough problems to deal with right this second he had to shove his arrogant ass into the mix.

"What do you want?" I asked harshly.

His brow furrowed slightly as if he was entertaining the idea of being confused. "I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, and I was appalled at how convincingly sincere he sounded. "My men mentioned you were upset."

What the hell was this guy on about? He was _concerned _for me? He was the one that allowed Mom to go back to Minot alone. He was the one that was making me feel as unwelcome as a corn on your big toe. He was the one who was a pain in my ass. And he was concerned that I was upset? This didn't make sense. He had to be up to something, but what?

"Yeah," I said. "I'm upset. I'm stuck in this stupid building while my mother walks her neurotic self into who knows what kind of danger back home. I'm missing the best vacation of my life. And all I have with me are the clothes I put on this morning, which, I might add, I am not even wearing at current. No. I'm stuck wearing these –." Steph cleared her voice pointedly and I mentally edited my rant before the words slipped out. "-stupid borrowed clothes that don't fit right. The only thing they have going for them is that they're black."

Carlos nodded like he understood my predicament, taking a seat at the counter next to Steph as Ella brought a fresh chocolate cake to the table accompanied soon after by a bowl of chocolate frosting. She quickly got to work icing the cake and cutting two decent sized pieces for Steph and I. Once our cake was placed in front of us together with a small fork and bowl with left over frosting, Ella took the rest of the cake away to the other side of the kitchen where it was promptly covered by a cake-covery-doovey-lacker.

I'd just picked up my fork and was about to start in on my mouth-watering cake when Carlos spoke again. "So you need clothes?" he asked, but his voice sounded different, sort of muffled and a bit garbled. Looking over to where he sat came to the conclusion that he was speaking through a mouthful of cake. He held Steph's little fork in his hand and there was a hunk missing from her slice. I glanced at Steph, who was staring at her husband with a simultaneously appalled and amused look on her face. I would have asked about it, had Carlos not continued speaking. "No problem. I can send Ella out to get you some clothes."

"I don't have any money," I informed him, gazing on in some kind of stupor as he scooped some extra frosting out of the bowl and plopped it onto Steph's cake before taking another bite. Steph, I noticed, had not yet gotten any of it.

There was a moment's pause as he worked to swallow his latest mouthful and took a sip of Steph's milk. Something about watching this well toned man fervently eat chocolate cake just didn't seem right to me. It was a bit like watching the smart monkeys on TV spell their names, you had to wonder if they really did that or if it was just an illusion. Like a magic trick of sorts.

"I'll pay," he assured me. "I can write it off as a business expense." He now sported a smear of frosting on his chin and was shovelling the last portion of cake into his gob as Ella handed Steph a fresh piece and a fork.

"I thought your body was a temple," Steph commented, practically moaning as she got her first taste of Ella's delicious cake.

He drew his eyebrows together as he sat back to look at her. "You know it is, Babe," he uttered, sounding just a little perplexed.

She smirked at him while I stuffed my mouth full of cake. "What's that on your chin?" she asked, reaching out to swipe the chocolate off and hold it in front of his face.

He stared for a moment before licking her finger, a smirk forming on his face. "Chocolate," he intoned, leaning in to kiss her neck. I turned my head to stare at the fridge then. I didn't need to see two relatively old people making out, especially when one of them was a complete ass and the other was the woman that gave birth to me. That fact still had me squicked out whenever I thought about it. She gave birth to me. In no way related to me. But she gave birth to me. Watching her make out with Carlos gave me the same feelings that watching my Aunt Josie make out with her biker fiancé. It was almost painful to watch.

The fridge was about to win our staring contest when Steph's giggling voice twittered through the air. "Yes, chocolate. On your chin. The only remaining evidence that there used to be cake on that plate." In the silence that followed, I slowly and cautiously, returned my gaze to the couple. They seemed to be having a show down. "You ate my cake, Carlos," she informed him sternly. "You know what happens when you eat my cake."

Perplexedly blinking, he replied, "No, I don't. I've never eaten your cake."

"You just did, dude," I inserted. I couldn't help it. Seeing him so un-pissed-off was getting me giddy. I like it when he's floundering.

"No."

"Yeah," Steph agreed. "You did. You must be saving up for a spare tyre." She laughed and popped a forkful of her cake into her mouth. "Good idea. I'm sure the baby will love having a human tyre swing."

Carlos's eyebrows drew together, crinkling his forehead. I couldn't decide if he was getting angry, confused or upset. It might have been a mixture of all three. Given our current history, I was compelled to join in the teasing. I mean, clearly, this guy took good care of his body, you'd have to to look the way he did. So how often would he eat a chunk of chocolate cake with extra frosting? My guess would be never. Except he did.

"Maybe he's just trying to do some baby proofing," I suggested, leaning my elbows on the counter. "Who wants to run the risk of having their baby brain itself on his rock hard abs? I mean, cots have padding around the bars for a reason, right? Think about it. Carlos is sitting on the couch, holding the baby. The baby starts fussing and thrashes it's head. WHAM! Baby brain damage. He's just doing his bit to ensure the kid's safety."

As his mouth slid open in shock, his eyes round and hurt, I couldn't help but feel better about my situation. I mean, clearly this guy has issues that wackier than mine. All I had was some crazy blowing things up and a mother crusader who locked me up while she went to fight the dragon, so to speak. This guy had, for a start, serious mood swings. Not to mention about four hundred and fifty extra calories to burn off. He was staring at us as if we'd just run over his puppy.

Steph snickered. "You better watch how much cake you steal or your uniform will cease to make you look so good."

I nodded my agreement. "She's right. You'll start to look like a guy who couldn't find the right size shirt rather than a guy who wears tight shirts to show off. You' probably get love handl- Oh. That's gross. Please strike that from the records. I do _not_ want to think about what the love handles would be used for." I scrunched my nose up and shoved the last of my cake into my mouth, closing my eyes and trying to think of anything other than the mental image of love handles.

It wasn't working!

Gagging, I managed to spit my mouthful of cake back onto my plate before I choked on it. "This is really, really obscenely gross!" I exclaimed, shaking my head.

Steph was laughing hysterically at me, one hand covering her mouth so that she didn't spit cake everywhere, the other holding onto the edge of the counter so she didn't fall off her stool. She was getting a real kick out of my need for brain bleach. Carlos, on the other hand, seemed on the verge of a hissy fit. His jaw was clenched shut and his eye was twitching. Guess he didn't like being teased. Abruptly, he stood and stomped out of the room, I heard a door slam, though I hadn't come through a door to get to the kitchen. It was pretty open between here and the elevator. Just doorways.

Still chuckling, Steph turned her body a little to face me more fully. "What the hell just happened?" she asked, sounding almost gleeful.

"I think he has male sympathetic pregnancy," Ella commented. "The mood swings. The chocolate cake. It's the best explanation I can come up with."

"So he's not usually like this?" I asked.

"No," Steph assured me. "Most people really like him when they first meet him. Then again he isn't usually such an ass at first."

*o*

Lester and Hank were still in the conference room exploring the many new useful applications they had found an hour after Tank was called away to deal with a client. They were in the process of creating a Venn diagram when the door slammed open to reveal a fairly irate looking Ranger, filling the frame. He tossed his company credit card on the table.

"She needs clothes," he stated without so much as a howdy-do. "Take her shopping." And with that, he stormed off.

The pair of them stared at the small rectangle of plastic for a short moment before simultaneously diving for it. What followed was an immature, bordering on idiotic, grappling as each tried to gain the upper hand. Eventually, Hank managed to seize the card and shove Lester back off the table. Lester reached for the card, but Hank slapped his hand away, holding the coveted item high in the air.

"Let's be logical about this," he suggested, receiving a stony glare from his counterpart. "We can work this out in a civilised manner."

"She likes me best," Lester stated firmly. "I should take her."

Hank scoffed. "How do you know she likes you best? She's shitted off at the lot of us at the moment."

Lester narrowed his eyes. "So we declare war?"

"That's not what I was saying."

"You want to find out who she likes best?"

Hank nodded slightly.

"It's on. This. Is. War."

Hank looked contemplatively at the credit card in his hand. "Great," he said. "I'll be sure to make sure she gets everything she wants."

Lester shook his head, standing and making a grab for the card. "I don't think so. I'll be taking her shopping." Hank jerked his arm away, keeping the card out of Lester's reach and causing the man to grunt. "I thought we were going to be civilised about this."

"That was before you declared war," Hank smirked.

"Fine, but we'll at least settle this in a fair contest. Place the card at that end of the table." He nodded to the end of the table furthest from the door. "And come back here. On the count of three we'll both make a dash for it. First one to grab it and make it out of the room with it takes her shopping."

Shaking his head, Hank followed the instructions. "This is ridiculous," he informed Lester. "I don't even _like_ shopping."

"So you forfeit?" Lester asked hopefully.

Hank gave him a dubious look. "Of course not."

"On the count of three, then"

"One," Hank intoned, flexing his fingers.

Lester cracked his neck muscles and bent his knees. "Two."

"THREE!" they both called together springing into action.

* * *

><p><em>Reviews are highly valuable currency which allow me to purchase the next chapter from my brain. I suggested you donate to the cause.<em>


	17. Chapter 17

_YAY! I got the new chapter out before Two Guns and a Knife had a chance to hound me for it! *happy dance* So once again, I finished this in the early hours of the morning, but had to wait until mid afternoon before posting so that Shreek could look over it. Special surprise for you at the end, because I was feeling generous. OH! and check out my latest crochet project on deviantart. My artist name is Becleigh._

**Chapter 17**

Already, Lester had been subjected to two whole hours of trailing the girl as she picked out clothes, standing nearby while she perused the extensive eyeliner selection in the makeup department and watched for half an hour as she strut up and down the aisle in various pairs of shoes. The ritual of trying things on baffled him, but Amabel insisted on trying each and every article she picked out. Thankfully she hadn't asked for his opinion on any of them, though he'd been compelled to give it freely in regards to a couple of her shoe options. They were more like stilts. Incredibly sexy and therefore wildly inappropriate stilts. Luckily she didn't seem too phased by the fact that he disapproved, simply removing them from her feet and putting them back on the shelf.

He was now laden with her purchases, – most of which were in deep shades of purple and black with just a few greens, reds and blues in the mix; Lester was starting to get the impression that the girl dressed like a bruise - walking behind her has she ticked of her mental list on her fingers. "Jeans, shorts, short-shorts, skirts, yoga pants, tops, camisoles, shoes..." She frowned staring straight ahead toward the food court Lester was hoping they would eventually reach. It was approaching seven o'clock and his stomach was starting to feel like his throat had been cut. "What have I forgotten?" she asked him, stopping abruptly.

"You didn't mention the makeup," he said, trying to be helpful. While she'd been perfectly civilised since he'd informed her that he was taking her shopping to replace the clothes she'd lost, she still seemed to have her guard up. She'd made no effort to engage in conversation during the ride over nor at any time during their extensive tour of Macy's. The few times he'd attempted to start a conversation with her, she'd been short and uninterested in her replies. The odds that he would be able to win her over with this shopping spree were slowly gargling down the drain.

Amabel nodded. "Right, makeup. But there's still something missing..."

"What else did you lose in the explosion?" Lester asked. His mission only covered clothes shopping, but what was the harm in replacing anything else she'd lost?

She groaned a little. "My iPod!"

Lester was shocked to realise that she was on the verge of tears. He didn't deal with tears well. "Hey," he tried to soothe. "Don't sweat it. We'll just get you a new one."

"What about my music?" she despaired. "There's no way I can put all my music on it. It's all on my laptop. At home."

"We'll figure something out," Lester assured her, gently nudging her toward the electronics store before she had the chance to burst into uncontrollable sobbing and trap him in a new kind of hell where the only way to escape was death or to finally figure out how to comfort a crying woman. "What about your phone? Is that gone too?"

Amabel shook her head. "I had it in my pocket when we went to sign out," she informed him, sounding – thankfully – more normal. "I must have left it in there when I changed into this stuff." Disdainfully, she plucked at the _Property of Rangeman_ apparel she still wore. "I'll have to fish it out when we get back so I don't accidentally throw it through the washing machine." After a pause she added, "It's alright if I use a washer, right?"

The innocence with which she asked the question caused a brief chuckle to emerge from Lester's chest. "Amabel, I don't think you'll get a chance to do any washing," he informed her solemnly, watching her eyes widen as she made a 180 degree turn to face him.

"You're shipping me off somewhere else?"she asked shrilly. Lester made note of how unnatural the tone sounded coming from her; he'd come to realise that she was much more of a shouter. "Stephanie promised my Mom she would watch out for me until she'd dealt with all the stuff back home! I can't believe you guys would do such a thing!"

"Relax," Lester intoned, placing a handful of carrier bags on the floor so that he could place a hand on her shoulder. "We're not shipping you anywhere. Your laundry is probably already done by now. Ella is very efficient."

The instant relief on that encompassed her entire body was quickly followed by tense shoulders as she jerked her head up to look him straight in the eye. "My phone!" she exclaimed urgently.

Without thought, Lester whipped out his own cell phone and started dialling Ella. As the call connected he assured Amabel, "I'm sure she noticed it and set it aside for you."

Ten minutes later, they were exiting the tech store with a brand new, black, 64 gig iPod touch in tow when Amabel stopped abruptly. Lester, who had once again been trailing behind her, only just managed to stop before he bumped into her. She was staring straight ahead, seemingly frozen in place. Her eyes were wide as Lester sidled around her to see what the matter was. When he stood in front of her to gain her attention, she averted her eyes. _What the?_

"Amabel?" he called her name softly. "Is everything alright?"

Quickly, she darted her eyes to him before once again looking away. "I know what I was forgetting," she mumbled. Lester simply waited for her to continue, feeling that any comment he made now would hinder her ability to speak, she was obviously feeling very awkward about this. "Why don't you take these bags to the car and I'll go get it? I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."

Lester shook his head. "I can't do that. If anything happened to you while we were separated my ass would be handed to me on a silver platter." He paused for a moment before adding, "And there's no telling what Ranger would do. Besides, you have no money. What is it you need?"

Taking a deep breath, Amabel swivelled her head to lock eyes with him as she said, "Underwear." She continued to stare into his face for long moments, gauging his reaction. Lester could only hope that he had managed to slam his blank face into place before any of emotions he was feeling right now showed. He wasn't sure exactly how he felt about taking a teenage girl underwear shopping, but he pretty sure it would be an awkward experience for one of both of them.

Swallowing back whatever feeling was burbling up his throat he managed to sound very efficient when he replied, "Not a problem. Victoria's Secret is just down here." He gestured with his head in the direction they had been travelling earlier. When she said nothing, he started walking that way, relieved to note that she was right beside him. Her face was impassive, as he assumed his was, leaving him to wonder what they looked like to the rest of the world. A man and a teenage girl walking through the mall with blank faces, both dressed in entirely in black.

As they entered the lingerie store Lester attempted to keep his eyes off of anything that might be considered sexy. They'd barely taken two steps into the space when a perky little sales woman with ample chest bounded over to them, a dancer-smile on her face.

"Hi! What were you after today?" she enquired in a voice so unnaturally high that it literally grated on his ears. Amabel furtively glanced at Lester before informing the woman that she needed underwear. Lester cringed as the woman let out a giggle. "Well you're in the right place! Would you like to be properly sized for a bra?"

Suspicion rose too quickly for him to stop it and he found himself blurting, "I'll do it."

*o*

I was _really_ hoping he hadn't just said that. As if having him stand there while I picked out panties wasn't awkward enough, now he wanted to _size my boobs?_ All I could think of was how creepy that was. How was I going to live out the rest of my stay in _casa de Rangeman _knowing that he'd felt me up? To try to convey this thought telepathically, stared at him with an open mouth, noticing out of the corner of my eye that the sales assistant was doing a fairly decent impression of a goldfish, occasionally glancing at me.

"She, uh," Lester started, scratching the back of his neck. "She's my girlfriend." This caused a look of disgust to spread across the woman's face which in turn made Lester blush. "She's older than she looks," he glanced at me, "Aren't you honey?"

"Twenty-two," I confirmed, though I was pretty sure I was having an outer body experience. I was actually watching myself from the sidelines, wondering why I was playing along with this. I could have quite easily have gotten him off my back, possibly sent to jail by simply claiming he was a creep that had been trying to buy my affections and that I couldn't get away from him. Simply saying that I was being held captive would have gotten him away from me long enough for me to make a break for it. Instead, here I was enabling him to control me.

"Oh-kay," the sales assistant said slowly and deliberately. "Well, I suppose it would be alright then. Just no hanky-panky in the dressing room." She led us toward the back of the store where the little curtained cubicles were for trying on bras and I couldn't help but notice that the further we ventured into the store the more risqué the items became. We were nearing the change rooms when the most brilliant of ideas struck me. I couldn't _not_ act on it. If he was going to make me lie about our relationship I was going to have some fun with it. "OH!" I exclaimed, stopping in my tracks. My vocalisation caused Lester –who for once had been leading in front of me – to turn abruptly almost knocking over a scantily clad mannequin. "Look _honey_, what about that one?" I asked, pointing randomly at an item on display nearby. I watched as Lester's eyes practically bugged out of his head when he caught sight of the lace teddy I was indicating. "Isn't it gorgeous?" I was pretty sure my eyes were flashing evilly.

His cheeks were flaming red when he managed to find his voice. "It's – uh," he made a chocking sound. "See through."

I chuckled nonchalantly. "Of course it is, silly." I had to stop myself from guffawing when he opened his mouth to reply but all that came out was a small squeak. Probably, I would have made him even more uncomfortable about it, if Ms Perky-Sales-Clerk hadn't interrupted at that moment.

"Alrighty," she said, getting our attention. She waited until we'd joined her before explaining the tape measure doovey she held. "This is the sizing tape. You're gonna wanna use this side to measure around just below her breasts, that'll give you the base size you're looking for. And then you use this side to measure around the widest part of the chest to find the cup size." As she explained she demonstrated the placements on herself, drawing the tape first under the swell of her breast and then over the bulk of it. Lester's gaze was transfixed on the movements. "If you have any problems just sing out."

With those brief, yet seemingly transfixing instructions, she handed Lester the tape and pointed us toward an empty cubicle. I lead the way, trying to instil an element of haughtiness into my walk. When I reached the cubicle, I flashed him a glare and pointed with a stiff arm for him to enter first before stating, just loud enough that it would carry to the clerk, "Don't think I didn't see you staring at her boobs."

His face was blank as I closed the curtain behind me, crossing my arms over my chest. When I met his gaze, though, he cracked a smile, letting out a breathy whisper of a laugh. I raised one eyebrow at him. "I know you have to keep watch over me," I started. "But this is a little ridiculous. I'm sure even the president is allowed to go into the cubicle alone when he needs to pee."

The laughter died at my words. "Sorry," said softly, trying to find a place in the small space to stare that made him appear less creepy. "I panicked."

"Seriously?" I asked. Was that a softening of my harsh feelings toward him I was feeling or the slow burn of my stomach starting to eat itself from lack of food?

"Seriously," he confirmed. "She was perky and insistent. We'd barely entered the store and she was on us like a vulture on the newly departed. All my training was telling me she was a threat so when she offered to size you I just said the first thing that came to me."

I shook my head. "Smooth," I commented. "Are you like that with all the perky, big boobed women you meet?"

He gave me a look, and it wasn't the look of love. "I'll have you know that I'm a real lady's man. Just so happens that this is unfamiliar territory."

"Seriously?" I repeated – I really needed to work on my vocabulary. He nodded. "You're... what, forty?"

"Thirty-four," he corrected testily.

"And you've never taken your girlfriend lingerie shopping?" A small satisfied feeling seeped through my gut as he ground his jaw. My plan of making him uncomfortable appeared to be succeeding. Time to pull out the big guns... or rather... the average sized guns. I reached for the hem of my borrowed t-shirt and began pulling it up to take it off.

That caught his attention.

Dropping the tape he still held to the floor he grabbed my hands, forcing me to let go of my top. "What the hell are you doing?" he intoned, jaw still clenched tightly.

I rolled my eyes at him. "Duh, I'm taking my top off so you can size me for a bra."

"Can't we leave it on?" he squeaked.

I sighed heavily. "I want to get fitted _properly_, Lester," I whined. "You can't get an accurate reading if I still have my shirt on."

Once again, his eyes were wide. "You're okay with me seeing your..." he nodded to my chest area rather than say the words.

"Just think of it like I'm wearing a bikini," I suggested, adding with an evil grin, "And thank your lucky stars that the bra I'm currently wearing isn't padded and doesn't flatten my chest, otherwise I'd have to take that off too."

He nodded and turned his entire body to face the other way. I assume he meant to give me privacy. The only problem with that theory was the tri-mirror he now faced that would give him a clear view of my rack anyway. Before I had a chance to point that out, though, he'd turned back around, grasped my waist, swapped out positions and was facing the curtain.

"You really don't want to see my boobs?" I asked, rather redundantly as I pulled the shirt over my head. "How do you plan to measure me without looking?"

"I'll work from the back," he told the curtain. "You position where it should sit at the front and I'm take the reading from the back." Once again, I rolled my eyes as I hung my t-shirt on the provided hook and picked up the dropped tape measure. "You'll have to face the curtain with me behind you," he added after a moment's thought.

It must have taken us a really long time to accomplish the task of measuring my chest, because as we were shuffling into position – Lester with his eyes closed – the sales woman called out asking if we were okay or if we needed help. Eventually, we managed to complete the task and before long I was trying on pretty bras. I'd decided to forgo my earlier decision to make him feel more uncomfortable than the situation already called for after seeing the gentlemanly way he handled my sizing. So instead of pointing out all the see-through and barely there items as I had planned, I simply made a few selections and went back to the change room to try them on.

Lester waited outside this time and I'd like to assume he stared at the ground the entire time in order to not ogle the buffet of sexy things all around him.

There was almost another awkward moment while I was trying on a pretty-but-practical convertible bra. I'd slipped the straps up my arms onto my shoulders without checking their lengths and was attempting to do up the little hooks at the back when the left strap, which had been left extremely short, popped off, snapping me in the face with the hard metal hook. The scream the left my mouth was involuntary as I let go of band to caress my now stinging cheek.

Almost too late, I head Lester's booted footsteps approaching. The curtains rustled as he gripped them in order to pull them back.

"Don't open the curtain," I squeaked hastily. "I'm fine. The strap snapped off and hit me in the face. I promise no one is in here with me attempting to kidnap me. You really don't want to open that curtain." And that was true. I'm fairly certain that if he didn't want to see my boobs when they were pretty much covered by my bra, he would _definitely_ not want to see me standing here, holding my cheek with a bra hanging limply from one arm.

Another ten minutes in the store was all I needed to make my selections and carry them to the counter. Lester tried very hard not to look at the items as the woman packaged them up for me. He stared diligently at the price on the computer screen as it increased before handing over the poor piece of plastic that had been so abused today.

As we exited the shop, my stomach growled, reminding me that it had been a really long time since that cake. I looked over to Lester, intending to ask if we could get some food before going home, only to find him chuckling silently.

"You think that's funny?" I demanded. "I'm _starving_."

His eyes twinkling, he replied, "Shopping is hard work, why don't we get some dinner."

Now it was my turn to laugh a little. He was a completely different person than he had been in the lingerie store. There he'd been unsure and awkward with all his attempts to not appear creepy. It wasn't exactly helped by the fact that all the young women were ogling him and all the old women were looking on disapprovingly. Now though, he was back to the joking, everybody-likes-me kind of guy that I'd first met yesterday.

_OMG, was it only YESTERDAY?_ It felt like a million years had passed since I'd first stepped foot in the Rangeman building.

*o*

It wasn't their usual meeting time, nor their usual meeting ritual. Meeting now, purposefully, under no false pretences felt wrong, but it had to be done. How else were they going to remedy the situation? Besides, _she'd_ finally agreed to meet with them. To try to sort things out, come to an agreement over their circumstances.

As their various hot beverages were placed down on the table before them, they all glanced across the food court to the frozen yoghurt stand that had been the hub of all their planning up until the day it had closed down not long after the death of its owner. A lot of unfinished business was left lingering in the air that day, but that would soon be fixed. Just as soon as _she _arrived.

* * *

><p><em>Don't forget to send in your review. Who knows what kind of training Hank has had in the past?<em>


	18. Chapter 18

_**Dear Fanfiction . net, Please allow me to use the functions of your site I require WHEN I require them, not when you see fit to allow me, Sincerely, Svendances.** _

_So I was all keep to upload this chapter TEN HOURS AGO (10pm Thursday, Australian Eastern Standard Time) but fanfiction wouldn't let me access Doc Manager. How rude is that? The chapter was all finished and proofread and reexamined by me (which doesn't ALWAYS happen) and they were like, nah, not at the moment, luv. So anyway. I'm uploading now. Finally. Enjoy_

**C****hapter 18**

Somehow, we managed to not be awkward as we lined up at McDonalds and ordered our food. I was actually surprised that he even allowed me to eat McDonalds, let alone join me. I'd seen what he and the other men ate at Rangeman and assumed that they were on a rabbit food diet. Fats and oils had to be foreign to them, right? Who, with their kind of physique, would even allow that kind of junk _near_ their bodies. Lester ordered a Big Mac, large fries and, get this, diet coke, like the lack of sugar in his beverage made up for all the calories in his food. Everyone knows that diet coke, even the fake kind they serve at McDonalds, is worse for you than regular full sugar coke in the long run. Overweight people were gazing on enviously as he ordered his meal. I had to shrug when they looked at me questioningly, trying for some kind of explanation for how the well muscled man could possible eat such crap.

Once we were seated at one of the food court tables and I had a mouthful of McChicken burger, Lester set his own burger down and laid his hands flat on the table, staring straight at me. Uncertain, I paused in my chewing, allowing my saliva to break down the food particles without aid of my chompers.

"Be honest with me," he said seriously, not once breaking eye contact. "Who's your favourite?" With a gob full of half chewed burger, the best I could do was give him a raised eyebrow. Apparently my lack of verbal response proved frustrating, because he let out an a sound of exasperation as he leaned further forward. "Why do you like Hank better than me?"

Finally, I managed to swallow, aided by a long sip of my sprite. "FYI, I haven't picked favourites," I told him honestly. "I don't like any of you anymore than the others." Now it was his turn to raise an eyebrow as he too took a sip of drink. "Okay," I amended. "So Carlos is on the bottom of the heap at the moment –"

"Even after he funded this shopping spree?"

"He's slightly higher in my opinion than he was when I first met him," I admitted. "But he's still miles lower than everyone else I've met. Including Tank."

Lester's brow wrinkled at my statement. Probably, I had just insulted one of his friends, but what was I supposed to think about the massive black man that scowled all the time and spoke in short sentences? I could tolerate Hank and Lester because they pretty much acted normal, which is more than I can say for nearly every other BBM I'd seen in the building. I was starting to think they were just well developed robots. "Tank can't help the way he is," he said. "It comes from prolonged undiluted exposure to Ranger. When you consider the data, you're lucky any of us are even tolerable."

I nodded sarcastically. "Sure," I said. "I'm grateful that you're not all a bunch of mindless drones."

"Darn tootin'," he agreed.

The rest of our shared dining experience was pleasant, bordering on fun. I teased him some more for his earlier freak out in Victoria's Secret, and he let me in on a few secrets that would help me to settle in at Rangeman. Things like when Ella is known to bake sugary goods. When there is most likely to be sufficient hot water for a shower. How to get to the break room without going through the epicentre of the Communications Floor. And best of all, how to bribe the tech support into allowing me to borrow a laptop for the duration of my stay. He also regaled me on some of Steph's more infamous moments as the Bombshell Bounty Hunter. People at nearby tables were looking at us like we were insane as we sat there cackling away with bits of food spitting from our mouths.

I still wasn't picking favourites yet – because let's face it, that would be a little mean to the other guys, since they haven't had the chance to win me over – but he was definitely in the lead for now. No way was I going to let him on the fact. Can you imagine how cocky he would act if he knew I was genuinely warming up to him? I shudder at the mental image.

*o*

Lester left Amabel – or as she'd started insisting he call her, Mab – at the table as she quickly dashed over to dump their trash in the nearby bin. He was pretty sure he was starting to see who she really was – a person that no one else in the company had even glimpsed – and was determined to keep up their easy going line of communication. Studies show that people open up more to people they feel familiar with and trust... at least that's what Lester thought they might and should show, since he's never actually been interested enough to read such a study. Either way, someone needed to befriend her and why shouldn't it be him?

When he returned to the table, Mab was in the exact same position he'd left her in ten seconds earlier, half sagged against the table, looking glass-eyed with exhaustion. She'd been through a lot in the last twelve hours and it was obviously taking a toll on her. It was obviously time to take her back to Rangeman so she could get some rest. Who knows, maybe she'd be more open to discussions about her Dad in the morning after a nice long sleep.

He glanced at his watch. It was still early. Time enough for one last treat. "Come on," Lester prompted, scooping up a handful of bag handles. "We'll get some ice cream on our way out and head home. You look beat."

Mab rolled her eyes, at him, but stood anyway. "First off," she began in a lecturing tone, "I have the right to look beat, since I've pretty much been dragged through hell today, as well as being almost kidnapped. Oh, and did I mention the bump on my head? Yeah, it hurts."

"You should see Bobby about that," Lester interjected. She wasn't fooling him. She was trying to sound all indignant and angry with the situation, but it was all a front to hide her true feelings. It was so obvious she was warming up to him. At this rate he'd be her favourite in no time, all he had to do was ensure that Hank was kept busy at the gun range and none of the other guys got any bright ideas to try to cosy up to the new kid. Sure, he might be acting like a child refusing to share his sandbox toys, but gosh darn it, how was he supposed to make the biggest, bestest sand castle if someone else was using his good bucket?

"Second," Mab continued, ignoring his comment. "The Rangeman building is not my home, it's just the place I'm staying while my Mom sorts some stuff out. And third, I prefer fro-," she paused a moment, looking up at him as he stood there, waiting for her to stand so they could start on their merry little way again. His hands were full of her purchases and he was starting to regret not picking up a trolley as the circulation in his fingers was cut off by the weight of the bags. Mab seemed to be sizing him up, for some reason, making some kind of decision about him. "Frozen yoghurt," she stated. "I prefer frozen yoghurt to ice-cream."

"Ahhh," Lester uttered. "Good ol' fro-yo. Gotcha. There might be a place that sells fro-yo somewhere around here. Let's take a look at the map."

As Mab got to her feet and lead the way toward the Mall Directory posted at the entrance to the food court, she was chuckling and shaking her head, leaving him to follow in her wake, confused, but glad that she was no longer acting pissed.

Turns out there was a 'Fro-Yo' stand near the entrance at the other end of the mall. The one furthest away from a) the _you are here_ star and b) where they parked the SUV earlier in the evening. Mab was all for walking the length of the mall in order to secure the frozen goodness, but Lester could see that she was really low in energy. Ignoring her protests he lead her out to the SUV, loaded her goods in the back and slid behind the wheel. Meanwhile, Mab was standing at the open passenger door staring at him with big, sad puppy dog eyes, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Get in," he urged her.

In reply she simply raised an eyebrow and flicked her gaze toward the mall they'd just left.

Lester sighed. "You're still getting Fro-yo," he assured her. "We're just gonna drive around to the other entrance."

"That's the height of laziness," she informed him haughtily as she slid into the passenger seat and drew down he seatbelt. "We could have just walked the length of the mall."

"There's two things wrong with that suggestion," Lester explained. "The first being that we would have had to walk the length of the mall _twice_, and since you're so tired it may have resulted in me carrying you, our fro-yo _and_ your purchases on the return journey. The second being that even if I wasn't carrying you, I wouldn't have a free hand to eat my fro-yo before it melted. And third, this way is quicker. At least I assumed it would be, I didn't factor in your objection to the plan and the fact that we'd have to debate the finer points of it.

"That was three," Mab pointed out as Lester started the car and pulled out of the parking space. "And could you stop calling it fro-yo? You sound like some geek Lord of the Rings fan with a really weird speech impediment. _Fro-yo is my favourite character_." The last was said in a mocking tone as the car pulled around the corner to the taxi rank at the other entrance.

Lester parked at the head of the line, ignoring the scathing looks he received from the cabbies, and turned to face the girl front on. Her curls were spazzing all over the place, jutting out from her pony tail and refusing to conform to social pressure. There were a few freckles on her cheeks that he hadn't noticed before, they made him examine her features more closely for a split second, in that time taking note of all the little features that made it clear that Mab and Steph were different people. At first sight she looked to be a dead ringer for the Lester imagined a 15 year old Steph would have looked, but now, having spent some time with her and now his closer examination, he could see all the difference.

Apart from the freckles, there was her nose, which was longer, but not overtly so. Her eyebrows were a shade lighter than her hair whereas Steph's matched exactly. Their builds were different as well. Mab had wider shoulders, creating the illusion of narrower hips – a swimmer's build.

"Are you going to get us Froghurt or not?" Mab asked almost testily, breaking him out of his spell.

At her words his back instantly straightened and he felt his eyes pop out of his head a moment before he schooled his expression into one of mild interest. "Froghurt, huh?" he enquired casually, leaning his arm against the back of his chair. "How is _froghurt_ any better than _fro-yo_?"

"It's more natural for me to call it froghurt. BTW, I'll have vanilla."

"Will you tell me more about froghurt?" Lester requested as he slipped out of the car.

"Maybe when you get back."

By the time Lester returned to the SUV with two small tubs of froghurt, though, Amabel was practically asleep. She stirred minutely when he started the engine, but otherwise was so close to the land of slumber that he didn't dare wake her. Amabel may not be related to Steph, but experience had taught him to let women sleep when they were sleepy or suffer grave consequences in the form of constant grumbling and death glares. He set the frozen yoghurt bag on the dash and started from the lot. They were halfway down the street when Amabel spoke.

"Aren't you going to ask me about Froghurt?" she asked lazily.

Startled slightly, Lester glanced over to find that she still had her eyes closed and was turned in her seat in order to curl up using the head rest as a pillow. "You're asleep," he told her.

"Not sleeping," she corrected him on a yawn, sticking her hand out. "Resting my eyes. Pass me my froghurt?" He did as she requested, amused by the fact that she still hadn't opened her eyes. "I've always called frozen yoghurt froghurt," she started, slipping a spoonful of the cool treat into her mouth to punctuate. "Dad sold it for a living. Had a place called That Froghurt Guy at the mall. It was a real hit."

Lester saw his opportunity to try to get her to talk about her father, and proceeded carefully. "Was it very successful?" he asked. _Start small, _he thought_, baby steps._

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders rise in a half shrug. "Successful enough to pretty much take care of my college fund. What mattered was that Dad loved it."

"You loved your Dad?"

Mab scoffed at that, still keeping her eyes closed. "Of course I loved him," she said sadly. "He was my dad. He would have done absolutely anything for me just to make sure I was happy. Once, he offered to beat up this mean girl's dad at a soccer game when the dad kept yelling for his little girl to 'take out the puny one'."

Unsure of what to say, Lester managed a small, insignificant comment. "You're not puny."

"I was," she assured him. "Smallest in my class until I hit my growth spurt half way through middle school."

"What was he like?" Lester asked as he turned into the street that would lead him to Haywood. "What are you favourite things about him?"

"He was protective. And pretty random, especially when you compare him to Mom. He was chaos to her. Complete opposites."

"Any special talents?"

Mab chuckled then. "You mean apart from frustrating Mom? Geometry genius and by extension, excellent at billiards. And he makes a mean pancake." At that moment, they pulled into the Rangeman garage. As Lester pulled the car into a parking space near the elevator, Mab lowered her empty froghurt cup to her lap and snuggled closer to the seat back. "I don't want to move," she complained. "Can't I just sleep here?"

Lester shook his head. "You'll be more comfortable in a bed upstairs. Go hail the elevator and I'll grab your stuff."

Ten minutes later, Mab was sound asleep in her borrowed apartment and Lester was in Tanks office with Hank and Ranger, explaining that the reason the name of the food outlet the women all use sounded familiar was because Amabel's father owned and ran it. They spent the next two hours trying to work out some kind of significance in the relationship, but ended up with a big ol' blank and a pocketful of yawns as they said their goodnights and went their separate ways.

* * *

><p>SX<p>

_So this means that I may just be able to use the conversation I thought up a couple weeks ago in the next chapter. I've been dying to get to it but just couldn't justify putting it in this chapter (since one of the characters involved in the conversation only appears right at the very end in a quick mention). It also means I'm that one step closer to putting in the awesome scene inspired by the conversation I had with my mother at my birthday lunch (Exactly a month ago)... _

_In the meantime, though, why don't you send in a review._


	19. Chapter 19

_Suprise! I finished another chapter! How awesome is that? Weirdest thing happened to me this evening while I was writing it though. Some random cat decided to SOMEHOW climb the screen of my second floor bedroom window and then sit just below it (on what, I have no idea) and peer in at me. How creepy is that? Anyway, read on *galant gesture*._

**Chapter 19**

Hank was at his desk early the next morning, trying to stay on top of his paperwork and taking the opportunity of the quiet, inactive comm. room to focus his efforts on initiating some tech work for the case, when he felt an unfamiliar presence behind him. Since he was inside the building – which was, of course, secure – there were only two viable options for who the someone could be. First, and the answer he would usually skip to under normal circumstances, was a new recruit, probably lost or looking for something to do. However, given recent events, and the fact that he'd spotted her shuffling towards the break room twenty minutes ago, Hank was fairly certain it was Amabel.

"Problem?" Hank asked adjusting his position so he could see her in the reflection in his computer screen while he continued deciphering codes.

In each hand she held a mug, as he watched she took a sip from one and held the other toward him. "Coffee?" she asked. "I've got cream and sugar in my pocket if you need it. I don't know how you take it."

Nodding slightly, Hank took the mug from her and immediately sipped the hot, caffeinated beverage. "This is just fine," he informed her. "Thanks." Hank set the mug on his desk, next to the keyboard and picked up his phone to send a quick text to Lester: _She brought me coffee. I'm totally the favourite._ "What are you doing up so early?" he asked Amabel, tucking the phone back into the space between the keyboard and the computer screen and swivelling to face her. "Grab the chair from the next cubicle if you wanna sit, chances are Bobby won't be in for another couple of hours."

She did as he suggested, at the same time explaining that she generally has trouble sleeping in a strange place and that she went to bed pretty early last night to begin with. When she was settled on Bobby's wheeled, spinning office chair, she cupped her own mug in both hands and gently spun herself from side to side while she spoke. "What are you working on?" she asked, nodding toward the computer.

"Just some reports I need to get done and some tech work for the case," he replied. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking coffee?"

"It's hot chocolate," she informed him, taking another sip and wheeling her chair a little closer to him so she could see the computer screen better. "That looks like what they show on the screen when someone's hacking in the movies," Amabel commented. "All code-y and stuff."

"That would be because I'm attempting to hack into something," Hank agreed. "Long distance too."

There was a pause in the conversation. Hank was wondering if he should tell her that it was his mother's laptop that he was trying to hack into. Generally, people don't react well to an invasion of privacy even if the invasion is not theirs but a loved one. On the other hand, Amabel had been somewhat cooperative in regards to this investigation, allowing them the insight of her mother's habits and more. Possibly, she would be okay with them hacking the computer since it would aid in their investigation of both her mother and how her father died. Hank had just opened his mouth to do just that, when Amabel cut in.

"Her password is _shreekisawesome_, no spaces, all lower case," she announced abruptly, staring straight into his eyes. When he managed to give her a quizzical look, she simply shrugged. "You were bound to get in eventually," she reasoned, "Why prolong the inevitable?"

Hank was surprised she'd been so forthcoming with the information, especially since they weren't actually going to ask for the password, but merely be upfront about what they were doing. He entered the password into the program and in an instant was privilege to the contents of Leah Hathwick's computer. If he'd known it was that easy he might have asked her yesterday. Of course there was no way of knowing how she would have reacted to him asking for her mother's password yesterday. Odds are, not well, considering the amount of anger that had been coursing through her body up until the moment Ella shot ten CCs of cake into her system.

"Ever shot a gun?" Hank asked her abruptly, pushing his chair away from the desk. She shook her head, taking another sip from her mug. "Do you want to?"

*o*

Steph sat on the edge of the bed, trying to find the energy and motivation to stand up. She knew the moment she got off the bed she would be compelled to do stuff. More than likely, she would need to void her bladder in another two minutes anyway. As she reached for the hair tie she'd looped over the bed post at the foot of the bed last night, she caught sight of her husband standing in the walk in wardrobe in only his black boxer briefs, hands on hips staring at the rack of clothes. As she watched, he reached out and pulled two coat hangers off the rail, one his standard v-neck t-shirt, the other a button through business shirt, both black. He held them out to compare them and then alternated holding each against himself.

"Carlos, what are you doing?" Steph asked curiously, now reclining sideways on the bed, her head propped up on her hand, elbow bent.

Shirts still in hand, he swung to face his wife, holding both shirts against his chest. "I can't decide which one to wear."

Steph almost choked on a laugh that burbled up from her throat. He looked so serious! Surely he was joking? Having a jab at her? As her laughter petered out she caught sight of his face and started to get the idea he was, in fact, serious about this. She fumbled for something to say that wouldn't sound too much like _"would you like a side of offensive with that?" _She snorted through a series of half formed attempts before finally settling on, "Do you have any client meetings today?"

Ranger looked down at the two shirts he held as Steph continued to fight for composure. After a long pause he nodded and turned to put the business shirt back. He pulled the tee over his head and stared at the shelves next to the hanging area that held his casual pants. Folding his arms over his head, he flicked his gaze between two shelves for a long moment before Steph decided to take pity on him.

"The cargos, Carlos," she urged him, sounding strangled. "Leave the jeans for the weekend."

Having now dressed, he pulled on his belt and grabbed a pair of socks out of the draw on his way out. Steph assumed he was heading to his side of the bed where his boots were in order to finish getting ready. Instead, on his way out of the wardrobe he stuffed the socks in his pocket and made a beeline for her. Before she knew it, he was knelt in front of her on the floor, kissing her passionately. "Morning, Babe," he said, with a slight smile as he broke the kiss.

Steph was a little breathless, but not so much that she failed to acknowledge the mental whiplash. One second he was unsure and needy, the next he's all suave, like normal. If she'd doubted Ella's theory of male sympathetic pregnancy before, she was pretty sure she believed now. "Morning," she managed to pant, but he'd already shifted to press a kiss to her stomach.

"And good morning to you too, Babettes," he cooed, rubbing the roundness of her belly.

"You don't know they're girls," Steph accused, though secretly she was relishing the attention he was lavishing over her. "We agreed we'd wait until they're born to find out the sexes."

Carlos almost rolled his eyes. "Babe, my abuela did the tea leaves," he said condescendingly. "I'm fairly certain they're girls." Placing another kiss on her abdomen, he added in a disturbingly-baby-talk-esque way, "And they're gonna look just like they're mommy, aren't they."

"There's no swaying you from this, is there?" Steph giggled as he lifted her night shirt and blew raspberries on her skin.

"Absolutely none," he replied gleefully.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine, but you have to let me up now, the _babette,_ as you've apparently named them without first consulting their vessel, are sitting on my bladder."

Carlos assisted his wife in hoisting her larger than usual self off the bed before circling around to his own side to put on his socks and boots while Steph went to use the bathroom. When she returned it was to find him standing at the end of the bed, waiting for her. She crossed the distance between them as quickly as she could, eager to be folded into his embrace.

"I know I freaked out about the whole Amabel deal," he said as Steph wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a soft kiss to his collar bone. "And I'm sorry. I guess I was just surprised. I never thought you would have done something like that. And then there was the fact that you didn't tell me about it."

"It's okay, Carlos," she whispered against his chest. "I understand. It was a shock."

He threaded his hands into the loose curls at the back of his head. "For a minute there I thought she was biologically yours," he murmured. "And it scared the crap out of me."

Steph's lips curled into an involuntary smile. "Just a minute, huh?"

Pulling away slightly, they stared into each other's eyes, Carlos's narrowing just slightly. "Yeah, just a minute."

"Of course."

"Anyway," Carlos continued, releasing her from the hug and grabbing her hand to lead her down to the kitchen for breakfast. "We've started making headway on the case," he informed her. "The guys made some connections between the other widows and the frozen yoghurt shop James owned." While he pulled out the two boxes of cereal from the pantry – his'n'hers – Steph found the bowls and spoons. "That's why I was home late last night," Carlos added. "So I've got Hector and Junior checking out the women, asking some questions in the neighbourhood, nosing around at night, et cetera. What we really need to know is how the _victims _are related. We're hoping to find the connection in the wives, but so far Leah doesn't seem to fit in. So if this theory falls through, we'll need to dig deeper into the husbands."

Steph pulled the milk from the refrigerator door and sat down at the kitchen table, gesturing to the seat opposite her spot to remind Ranger that he needed to sit too, and bring the Lucky Charms. He didn't allow much dalliance from a perfectly healthy food regime since she'd become pregnant, but she'd managed to convince him that she _needed_ her Lucky Charm – Coco Puffs alternating weekly routine. With the way he was jabbering on, he might very well forget about eating all together and dash off to the office, leaving her to get her own cereal – which wouldn't be such a bad thing if it weren't for the fact that she'd already sat down and it would take _a lot_ of effort to get up again_._

"So you want me to start searches?" she guessed, as Carlos finally sat down.

"No," he replied. "I want you to tell me everything you know about Leah and James Hathwick."

*o*

I felt _powerful_. In my hand, I held a Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm semiautomatic pistol. Still. Warm. I'd made a point of memorising the title and description Hank had given it when he'd laid it on the desk earlier. It was fresh from the Gun Cage behind the supervisor's desk, looking all shiny and new – but apparently they've had it for a while. He set it down. Told me about it. Pointed out all the parts then lead me over to one of the stalls of the range. He loaded it up, handed me a pair of noise cancelling headphones and demonstrated its use. When he'd finished, he pressed the gun into my hand and guided me through my first two shots. After that, he stood by, watching carefully as I took aim and pulled the trigger over and over.

Now, the gun was empty and I was exhilarated. Breathing heavily, I looked over to Hank. "Can we go again?" I asked, excitedly.

He sent me a smile, but shook his head. "I think that's enough for your session. Besides, I didn't even gain authorisation to bring you down here, let alone allow you to hold and shoot a gun. If Tank knew I'd done this he'd have my ass served on a platter."

I handed him the gun and followed him back to the desk where he proceeded to pull said gun apart and clean it out. Sitting cross legged on the spare chair, elbows propped on the edge of the desk, I watched his expert hands move between the pieces. I was so mesmerised that my thoughts were completely detached from my mind. Half of me was thinking _awesome_ while the other half was wondering over past conversations in this building.

"So tell me," I finally voiced as he began putting the gun back together. "What kind of even could transpire in this building that would justify the emergency stashes of spare clothes?"

He shrugged casually. "Oh, you know. The usual," he said, stopping to scratch his nose. "Someone spills coffee on themselves. Someone rolls in garbage and decides to tackle someone on duty without showering first. Paintball gun misfires."

My jaw went slack. He'd said it so casually! I mean, eww about the garbage, but paintball? That's better than a real gun in my eyes. "OMG," I commented. " Not sure I want to know about the garbage thing. But _paintball guns?_ You have those?"

"Duh," Hank uttered. I blinked at that. _Duh_ didn't exactly sound like the kind of thing he said on a day-to-day basis. "We use them for combat training."

I jerked upright in my chair. Instantly interested. "Can I see one?"

* * *

><p><em>Choice of passwords may or may not have been hijacked by Shreek (my awesome proofreader). Apparently, you all need to go read her stuff... IDK, just a suggestion. Don't forget to review.<em>


	20. Chapter 20

_Tada! (That's short for "Dut dada dut da da tada!") Another chapter. And it hasn't even been a full twenty four hours. In fact the chapter was WRITTEN within about 14 hours of posting the last one (and I had an eight to ten hour over night sleep in there too!) This is the chapter I've been waiting a month to write. I couldn't sit still the entire time. And my proofreader giggle pretty much the entire way through. Take a stab at it. -{-_

**Chapter 20**

This must be how international spies feel, crawling through air ducts on secret missions. I had two paintball guns slung across my back and two mounts shoved into the back of my jeans. I was wearing a special pair of glasses that allowed Hank to see everything I saw and in my ear was an audio transmitter so we could communicate. As I crawled along, I couldn't help but be excited by the prospects of the plan Hank had set forth. It was flawless. I just hoped I could follow his instructions well enough to set up the remote trigger. He'd have done it himself, but he couldn't fit in the air ducts. Apparently, he's been working on the plan for years, waiting for the right sized person to come along.

"You're sure this is going to work?" I whispered, knowing that he would hear me. I couldn't risk being too loud and drawing the attention of the people in the room below. "He's definitely going to be here?"

"Eight o'clock on the dot, every morning," he replied in my ear. "Without fail." There was a short silence before he spoke again. "There should be a vent coming up on the right. Set the gun up pointing back towards me at a forty-five degree angle."

I rolled my eyes. "Right, just let me grab out my protractor,"

"It's halfway between zero and ninety," he explained. I'm pretty sure he was being condescending now. I mean, who doesn't know that forty-five degrees is half way to ninety? That's like, the first thing they teach you in math, right?

"I know _that_," I said, exasperated. "What I meant was, how close to perfect does this angle have to be?"

"Not all that important. Try lining the sight up with the corner of the line on the mat," he suggested.

I did as he suggested and surveyed the resulting angle. It was pretty much forty-five. Close enough for jazz as far as I'm concerned. I set up the next gun so that its target was about a foot and a half to the right of the first, did the necessary rigging that Hank had described and made my way back toward the hole I'd climbed in through where Hank was waiting with another couple of guns for me. This went on for another hour, setting up all the paintball guns so that they would, I suppose, form what looked like a giant game of boxes ready to be played (you know, where you have all the dots and you take turns joining them up to make boxes?) when they all fired.

As I climbed down from the duct Hank informed me that there was enough time for me to get cleaned up and change clothes before it would be show time. He escorted me to my apartment, ensuring that we didn't run into Lester on the way (because that would be a little suspicious) and left me to do my thing, saying that he needed to double check something on the comm. floor. Ten minutes later, I met him in the elevator and we made our way down to the gym once more. As he stepped on at the comm. floor he handed me a mug of hot chocolate and informed me that I should smudge my eyeliner a bit to make it look like I'd just woken up.

Our cover story was, that I'd woken up and gone to the break room, at which point Hank had offered to escort me down to where Lester would be working out in the gym – apparently he's supposed to be keeping a vigilant eye on me during my waking hours.

"So you're doing this to make Lester jealous of the awesome time I'm having with you, right?" I asked as the elevator made its slow descent. I was pretty sure they had some kind of bet going over who could befriend me first – why else would Lester be obsessed by finding out who my favourite was?

Hank looked like he was considering his options for a moment. "What other reason is there?" he asked.

I shrugged, sipping my hot chocolate. "IDK, just thought that maybe you wanted to be my fave."

I watched, satisfied as his eyes widened and he glanced at me quickly, before schooling his expression into the blank mask that was becoming more familiar the more time I spent with these guys. "Is it working to that end?" he asked casually.

"Might be," I commented. "We'll have to wait and find out." He didn't reply to that. Probably didn't want to push his luck. In fact, we spent the rest of the ride down in silence.

Lester was right where we wanted him when we entered the gym. He was on the mats, stretching. As was a BBM I didn't recognise – not that that's saying much, there's a heap of BBMs and I'd only really met three of them. I called a good morning to him while Hank ushered me to the bench seating that ran around the perimeter of the room.

"Mab!" he exclaimed, sounding surprised. "I wasn't expecting you up for another hour at least."

"I'm up," I announced, deliberately stating the obvious. "I'll just sit here while you do your thing. No hurry."

He shrugged and turned back to his companion taking up a combat stance. They engaged in some idle smack talk, circling around each other and I let an inadvertent yawn. I wanted them to get on with the fighting already. Actually, they call is sparring, don't they. Whatever. Fight. Fake fight. I wanted to see someone (preferably Lester) pinned to the ground.

Beside me, Hank slipped the remote control out of his pocket and made it look like he was checking messages on his phone – that's the beauty of modern technology, a remote control detonator doesn't have to look like a box with a big red button. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would have thought Hank _was_ just checking his phone for messages. I had to squelch down a wave of excitement that threatened to have me bouncing on the bench impatiently.

Finally, Lester and the other guy began their back and forth. Hank was keeping a running stream of commentary for my benefit, but I was barely listening. I was watching avidly, waiting for the other guy to pin him. I wanted them horizontal on the mat when we set the paintball guns off. That way they were more likely to get hit. Hank was leaning forward, elbows braced on knees, the remote held in both hands, looking just as intent as I felt. It took another five minutes of their dancing around before they hit the mats, but it wasn't Lester who was pinned. It was the other guy. Now that I thought about it, though, it was better that way; it meant Lester was on top and would cop the brunt of the blow.

"Go!" I whispered to Hank urgently. "Now!"

An instant later the matted area of the room exploded in a burst of colour and the startled cries of the two men. The guns fired for five seconds before stopping and allowing us to assess the damage. Two multi coloured men were crouched in the middle of the area, surrounded by splatters of paint and one less splattered area where they'd been lying just seconds ago.

"What the hell!" Lester had just enough time to screech, looking around wildly before Hank let rip the second round of fire. "_FUCK!"_ he cried, diving for the edge of the mat in an attempt to get away from the line of fire. The other guy was running for the opposite edge, hands held over his head protectively.

Hank and I were cackling evilly, watching on as Lester scrambled to gain his footing at the edge of the mat. More men were crowding in from the adjacent room where all the exercise equipment was, creating a growing cacophony of laughter and amazed shouts. I saw a couple of men on the phone, obviously calling mates were not yet here to come and have a look. Others had their phones out as well, but seemed to be capturing the moment in photographic and video form. _Why hadn't I thought of that?_

Eventually, the laughter began to fade away and the crowd thinned out a little. Lester was standing directly in front of Hank and me, hands on hips, looking for all the world like an angry rhinoceros. As I stared up at him, still giggling at the purple paint drooling down his forehead, he stalked forward slowly, opening his arms as if to hug me. _Uh oh_.

"Hank!" I squealed, tugging on his arm. "Save me! These clothes are brand new!"

Hank, my own personal hero, instantly tackled Lester to the ground before he could come any closer. They were snarling at each other like rabid dogs, grunting occasionally, and generally sounding like the soundtrack for a wrestling match. After a few seconds of struggle, Hank rose victorious, sitting on Lester's chest. "That's her second change of clothes already today, man," he huffed, wiping sweat from his brow and in the process smearing paint across his forehead. "And they're brand new. Getting paint on them is like asking for her wrath."

Lester tried pushing Hank off him, but Hank was a formidable force – and probably a massive weight. "Why'd you do it?" he wheezed out, shoving again.

Hank shrugged nonchalantly. "Why not?" he countered. "I had the means. I had the know-how. I've been planning this for three years, just waiting for the right accomplice to come along."

"You're insane," Lester grit out, now attempting to rock Hank off him, by jerking his body left and right. "You know that? Ranger's gonna be pissed. And you're corrupting the kid!"

"Damn right I'm pissed," came a low even tone from the doorway. We all jerked our heads in that direction in surprise to find that the crowd had now disappeared and in its place stood one pretty irate looking Carlos Manoso. Okay, that's a lie. He didn't really _look_ irate, per se, it was more like he exuded irateness in his demeanour. His whole body seemed to be wafting terror inducing pheromones in our direction. "On your feet, soldiers!" he barked, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the guys leap to their feet, assuming attentive stances – feet apart, hands clasped behind backs, shoulders straight. Personally, I decided the best thing for me to do was shrink back against the wall and hope to go unnoticed.

The moment I made the slightest move, he spun his gaze to me. _I should have gone with Plan B: Stay very still and pretend I don't exist._ "Upstairs," he commanded. "Now. Sit in the break room and don't touch anything. I'll deal with you later."

Probably, I was digging myself in even deeper with my next action, but it just kind of happened. It was as if I'd lost control of my body for that brief moment in time. I stood and faced him, saluting him sarcastically and uttering in my fake Scottish accent, "Aye, aye, cap'n," before sauntering past him and through the doors to the rest of the gym. There were some guys waiting there, grinning like the fools they appeared to be and giving me the thumbs up. Some even came over and slapped me on the back affectionately, congratulating me on the prank, but I shushed them all by holding up both my hands and whispering, "I wanna hear this."

"_Do you have any idea how much damage you could have done!" _ we heard Ranger practically bellow. "_Not only the equipment, but the people! What if Stephanie had been in here? What if she had come in unknowingly and stepped into the line of fire just as the guns went off? She could have been hurt! She could have gotten hit! In the stomach! You could have injured the Babettes!"_

Around me, the men began to whisper fervently to each other. "Babettes?" someone intoned. "Did he say _Babettes?_ As in _plural_?" Someone else murmured, "What a ridiculous pet name!" But what interested me most was the crowd of men to my left. Their heads were together and they appeared to be examining an exercise book. "Who had twins?" one of them asked. "Did I put down for twins."

I shushed them all again as Ranger's voice began to carry through the door once more.

_"I don't care if you 'made sure'_ _she was definitely nowhere near the scene. We all know that Stephanie is drawn to these ridiculous situations like fire to a car explosion!_"

I jumped as Steph's voice sounded from directly behind me. "Oh, come on!" she sighed. "It's not _that_ bad." She brushed past me, muttering a distracted, _excuse me_ and pushed her way into the room. _"Like fire to a car explosion?"_ we heard her exclaim at the door swung shut behind her.

*o*

It's been almost an hour and Carlos still hasn't come looking for me. I know he said to stay in the break room, but I couldn't stand it. For one, I was all alone. And for another, I was pretty sure the guys were being punished down in the gym. My curiosity was eating at me and I'd just decided to make my way down there to see what kind of fresh hell Carlos was subjecting them to when Lester's sparring partner entered. He was dark skinned and sported a marine buzz cut and the same black-black-black clothing as every other inhabitant of the building – at least I fit in, in that respect. He'd obviously showered since I'd last seen him, since he was no longer multi-coloured. He walked straight past my position on the couch, making a beeline for the fridge.

"Want a water?" he called over his shoulder, reaching in. Assuming he was talking to some other colleague who had yet to enter the room, I remained silent. After a long pause, he pulled his head out of the fridge and looked directly at me. "Well?" he prompted.

Startled, I let out a small, "Oh," of surprise before muttering a "yes please".

"Heads up," he warned, tossing the bottle he'd retrieved for me in my direction. I was still flustered from not realising he was talking to me and managed to all but drop the bottle as it landed in my fumbling hands. "Bobby Brown," he informed me, extending a hand for me to shake as he approached the sitting area. "You're Amabel Hathwick." I took his hand briefly, nodding that he was correct. "We met at the fast food place the other day," he added – _Oh, _now_ I recognised him_. "How's your head? Any lasting soreness? Dizziness? Disorientation?"

"Uh, no," I uttered, confused by this sudden onset interaction. Where was the preamble?

"Nausea?" he questioned, plopping down in the armchair nearby. "Loss of concentration?"

I didn't reply. This was weird. Why was he asking me all these questions? I stared at him, trying to work out his angle.

"Company medic," he explained, shooting me a smile. "Just trying to make sure you don't drop dead on us. That could be bad for business, ya know?"

"Right," I murmured.

"Nice prank earlier," he complimented, as if I'd been the brains behind the operation, instead of just the small person able to fit in the air ducts in order to achieve the desired results. "Set up the guns in the air ducts?"

"Yeah," I confirmed.

"Get 'em down yet?" he asked, setting his water on the coffee table.

To be honest, I hadn't even thought about them. I mean. First there was the wrath of Carlos, lying in wait for the moment when I was most vulnerable. Then there was my worry over the guys and their punishment. The thought of who was going to retrieve the guns hadn't even crossed my mind.

"Thought as much," he said, standing abruptly. "Come on, I'll give you a boost."

I looked around the room, as if expecting to see something, some sort of sign or whatever. "Carlos told me to wait here for him," I informed Bobby. "I'm not supposed to move until he's _dealt_ with me."

Bobby waved my words away with a flick of the hand. "Ranger's too messed up at the moment to be trusted with discipline. Steph sent him to his office for a time out. Come on, we'll get the guns and then you can help me pack them away. That'll make up for any part you played in the event."

"Serious?"

"As a heart attack," he assured me, leading the way out of the room.

* * *

><p><em>Well? What did you think? Send me a review!<em>


	21. Chapter 21

_Holy Moley! This was such a long chapter! I got about halfway through and was like, "This is going really well" and then I did a word count and was like "WHAT!" but I kept going with then entire plot I had planned for this chapter anyway. I hope you appreaciate it. _

**Chapter 21**

"What's your MO?" I asked Bobby, handing him the last of the paintball guns. We'd kept up a steady stream of idle chit-chat throughout the entire process, the kind of conversation that I didn't see Hank or Lester providing any time soon. He'd asked me about school and my friends and I'd asked him about how he ended up at Rangeman – apparently he saved Carlos's life on some government mission thing once ages back. And eventually –god knows how – we got on to the topic of how ridiculous Hank and Lester were acting and it occurred to me that Bobby might just be a milder version of them. What if he was trying to buy my affections with his lack of trying? It was a completely valid plan of attack, to my way of thinking. Lester and Hank were all over me like a rash trying to get into my good books so that I'll talk openly to them about all kinds of stuff that may or may not be vital to the case they're currently investigating (I refused to continuously think about the fact that the case was the case of my mom's strange behaviour and my dad's possibly serial killer death). Whereas Bobby was all casual and not even really attempting to be my friend. He'd asked how I was purely out of professional interest, and the conversation we'd been having up until this point was the kind I would have with one of my friend's parents.

"My MO?" Bobby asked – rather stupidly, I thought. _Surely, he knows what MO is_.

"Duh," I said, plopping down behind the gun range desk and propping my feet up while he finished locking the cage. "You know what I mean. Everyone has an MO. Carlos is a douche. Tank's MO is to keep the other guys working to their upmost ability. Lester and Hank's is to get as much information out of me while also becoming my favourite. So what's yours?"

Bobby let out a sudden bark of laughter as he re-entered the room, startling me into almost falling off the chair. "First of all, I'm not sure being a douche can really be classified as an modus operandi," he informed me, shutting the gun locker key in the desk draw and locking it with a key from his own keyring. "Second, I noticed you didn't mention Steph in that list. What's her MO?"

See, this is what I'm talking about. Lester or Hank would have steered the conversation in a _what-about-you_ direction. But Bobby pointed the other way. How am I supposed to trust him if he doesn't do what I expect and doesn't answer questions directly? It would have been so easy for him to tell me his MO or make an obvious deflection – _"Oh, you know, the usual_." But he didn't. Instead he made a more subtle attempt to distract me. Well two could play at that game, sort of.

"I tried calling my Mom this morning," I told him. I hadn't planned on telling anyone about any contact I had with my mother since it's none of their business whether I talk to her or not, but she wasn't picking up. I know she had her cell with her when the car was blown up; it lives on her belt. But it wasn't even connecting. I'd found the phone waiting for me on the end table by the couch in the living area of my temporary accommodations when I got home last night and tried calling her for a good twenty minutes this morning before deciding I needed to get some breakfast, but I was left disappointed and worried.

To pass the awkward pause I started fiddling with the few items that were left out in the open on the desk – the stapler, the computer mouse, the keyboard and the monitor; it makes you wonder: why the stapler? I was fiddling with the brightness toggles on the monitor, noting that it made no difference on the screensaver, when Bobby finally spoke. He'd dropped into the chair opposite me, bracing his elbows on his knees, with his hands clasped together, I had a feeling I should have waited for Lester or Hank before kicking into this conversation; there would have been less psychoanalysis.

"I take it it didn't go well," he surmised. "Otherwise you wouldn't be bringing it up."

"She didn't answer at home and her cell didn't even connect," I confirmed, hoping he would just take that and go do some investigating for me to try to get to the bottom of it. I really didn't want him to delve any deeper. I didn't want to talk about my feelings. I didn't want to go back to hating this place.

"I'm sure she's fine," he assured me. "She probably just forgot to charge her phone."

I shook my head. That didn't even seem plausible where my mother was concerned. She was completely OCD about everything running exactly to plan. Having a phone with a flat battery was _never_ in her plan. I couldn't see her allowing that to happen. She had emergency chargers _everywhere_ to avoid a flat battery. "She wouldn't have," I said simply. "It's not like her."

"But she was stressed, wasn't she?" Bobby asked. "People do things that aren't their norm when they're stressed."

I shrugged, feeling worse all of a sudden, like somehow it was my fault that she was so stressed. All I'd wanted was the perfect summer holiday at the beach and here I was stuck in a building with a bunch of BBMs, remotely firing paintballs at guys I hardly know and getting them into trouble. I'd caused a fight between a married couple, one half of which gave birth to me, but isn't at all related to me. I'd been stalked, and kidnapped, had my head knocked and been almost blown up. My favourite clothes were gone, and I couldn't even play my favourite songs on my iPod because that was blown up with the clothes, instead, I had an iPod with no music and no way to set it up. Despite the fact that I was pretty much in a four star hotel for all the services and accommodations they provided me with, I felt like I was camping out in the wilderness completely cut off from electricity.

"What if something bad has happened to her?" I asked, surprising even myself with the sudden question. I hadn't even realised I was thinking it, but it popped out of my mouth none the less. "What if whoever killed Dad is behind all the crazy stuff that's happened this week? What if he wants to kill Mom as well?"

I had to stop talking as my throat constricted and my vision blurred with tears. I didn't want to cry anymore. I needed to stay positive. There was no use freaking out when I didn't even know if what I was thinking was right.

There was a long moment of silence while I attempted to get my emotions under control. I was grateful to notice that instead of watching me awkwardly or perhaps looking everywhere _but_ at me, Bobby had immersed his attention in his phone, seeming to ignore me for the time I needed to find my composure.

"Thanks," I muttered, when I'd finally calmed down enough to speak.

"I didn't do anything?" Bobby replied, sounding bewildered.

"Exactly." I stood from the desk and made my way toward the door. "That's exactly what I needed."

Bobby stood and followed me out, casually stretching and scratching the back of his head. We'd made it all the way to the elevator before either of us spoke again.

"Where are we going?" he asked curiously as I pushed the up button.

"To see what hell Hank and Lester have been subjected to," I replied. "I need some distraction from these awful thoughts in my head, and while Hank and Lester can be a little smothering, they're also kinda fun. Fun is good, right?"

The elevator doors opened and Bobby motioned for me to enter first. "Lay on MacDuff," he murmured, sounding vaguely Scottish. When I glanced his way, he explained with a grin, "Shakespeare." He pushed the button for the gym and his grin widened. "And I heard your Scottish accent earlier. It's pretty good."

I felt my cheeks warm at his compliment. "Dad and I used to practice all kinds of accents. We'd go out and pretend to be from foreign countries to see if our accents were believable."

*o*

She could hear people walking past the alley where she lay. Could hear them chatting merrily in groups and pairs. Desperately, she tried to call out to them. To get their attention. To plead for help. But her voice was failing her. Her throat ached from her strangling. Her mouth was dry as she spit out yet another mouthful of blood that had begun to pool. The lingering coppery taste causing her to retch, starting the cycle once more. Her throat ached. Her head pounded. She attempted to pull herself up on the dumpster nearby only recall anew that it caused her a great deal of pain to lift her left arm and even more agony to put any kind of weight or pressure on the right wrist. She couldn't even seem to locate her legs to assess any damage that may have been done there.

What she wouldn't have given to have two of those muscled he-men that seemed so plentiful in Trenton with her at the time of the attack. She'd been a fool to go alone. Walked straight into a trap. That's what happens when you work alone, you have only your own opinion and your own subconscious telling you to forge on.

One minute she'd been approaching the food court, rehearsing what she would say to the women in order to free herself and save her daughter, the next she was being forcefully escorted from the shopping centre and into the deserted alleyway nearby. That's when the beating started. Her arms had been held behind her back by one man while another used her as a punching bag, pummelling every inch of her body before slamming her to the ground under all his weight and strangling her.

Eventually, she'd slipped into unconsciousness, the black haze swimming over her vision until finally there was nothing. It seemed like such a long time ago. Days. How long had she laid in the filth unaware of anything at all before the pain wracking her body had caused her to vomit?

The moment she'd regained control of her stomach she had reached for her cell phone clip at her belt only to find it empty. Injured and beyond contact in every way. There was no way anyone would here her calls from this deep in the alley with the noise from the street crowding in. The constant honking of car horns and squealing of teenage girls enjoying their summer vacation.

As consciousness again began to waver, she thought of her own teenage girl. Hundreds of miles away. Safe and sound under the ever watchful eye of the best security company in the country. It brought her a small amount of comfort knowing that she no longer needed to fear for the girl's safety.

*o*

Lester dipped the toothbrush into his bucket of lukewarm water for what must have been the gazillionth time that day and surveyed his handiwork. So far, he had managed to clean exactly five square feet of the large expanse of mat that had been covered in paint. Probably, the cleaning process would be going a lot faster if _someone – _cough-Hank-cough – hadn't spoken out of turn, inviting Ranger to revoke their sponge, cloth, broom and scrubbing brush privileges. Instead they could use only the toothbrushes they now held and the buckets of soapy water to attempt to remove the multicolour mess from the area.

As he once again began to scrub at the mats he felt a splatter of something wet on the back of his head. Jerking his head to the side to glare at the only person who could possibly be the culprit, he saw Hank busily working on his own patch of mat, as if nothing had happened. Lester narrowed his eyes and went back to work, only to have a repeat of the droplets hitting the back of his neck. Hank wasn't so fast this time. When Lester glanced up Hank's toothbrush was still poised in mid air.

"I saw that," Lester announced.

"Saw what?" Hank asked innocently. "I was just flicking excess water off my brush."

Lester glared. "Yeah, and onto me."

Hank shrugged his shoulders, wiped some sweat from his brow (smearing more paint across his forehead in the process) and returned to his scrubbing. Lester, too, continued cleaning the mat until yet another sprinkle of water hit the back of his neck. That did it. First, he caused this situation, and now he wanted to annoy him even more by constantly flicking water at him? It wasn't bad enough that he seemed to have Mab eating out of the palm of his hand this morning with that prank. Somehow he had managed to drag Lester into the punishment to clean it up _and _ he was antagonising him.

He didn't even flinch as yet another cascade of water met his neck. He refused to give Hank the satisfaction of seeing him annoyed. Another light rain fell. Followed quickly by another. And another. And one more after that. Lester was letting his wrath build up, rolling it into one giant ball ready to be released at a moment's notice in order to wreak havoc on the man they call Hank.

As more droplets of water met his skin, he snapped. In one swift move he'd leaped across the space separating them and crash tackled Hank to the ground. Lucky for Hank, they were still on the mats otherwise it could have hurt a whole lot more than it did.

"Cut it out!" Lester growled, pinning him to the ground and punching him in the shoulder. "It's your fault we're here!"

"I'm just trying to lighten the mood," Hank responded calmly. His eyebrows drew together and he glanced down past Lester, letting out a soft curse. "How do you suppose we clean that up using just our toothbrushes?" he asked of Lester, nodding his head in the direction he was looking.

Lester turned to see what the matter was, distracted by the sight of a bucketful of water steadily spreading itself across the floor for just long enough for Hank to dump him on the floor. Simultaneously, both men removed their tees and dumped them on the ever increasing puddle, trying to soak up the mess. It took mere seconds for the shirts to be completely drenched and they quickly scooped them up and squeezed them out into the now empty bucket. The process was repeated several times before Lester noticed a considerable difference in not only the amount of liquid on the mat but the amount of paint.

"Wipe up the paint with your shirt and then we might actually make some progress," Lester instructed, already having started doing so himself. They worked silently for five minutes or so before he felt a torrent of water hit his back. "What the hell, man?" he exclaimed, sitting back on his heels, sopping wet shirt in hand and glared at his friend.

*o*

For a moment I was immensely confused by the sight that confronted me as I pushed through the doors of the gym. Two grown men, wearing only their pants were running around on the still multicoloured mats. They themselves were multicoloured as they swung their wet t-shirts around and whipped each other with them. It was oddly reminiscent of watching my seven year old cousins Derek and Josh flicking their towels at each other at the family pool party we'd had last year. Of course, there were definite advantages to this particular sight, given that these men had abs, whereas my cousins had nothing.

"Like I said," Bobby commented from behind me. "Ranger's too messed up to be trusted with punishments at the moment. Ordinarily, these two idiots wouldn't be allowed to stay in the same room armed with buckets of water. It's bad enough trying to get them to actually work when they have their iPads out." He led me over to the bench that ran around the perimeter of the room and I sat down to watch. He remained standing, however, adopting what I like to think of as the Peter Pan stance – to hell with what it's actually called. His feet were braced firmly apart, and his fists were propped on his waist; all that was missing was his chest puffed out. "Drop your weapons," Bobby commanded.

Lester and Hank immediately let go of their t-shirts – Lester's flying halfway across the mat, since he was in mid swing at the time – and raised their hands above their heads in surrender. Bobby had just opened his mouth to give another order when the doors burst open and Tank hurried in. He shook his head at the scene before him before beckoning the guys over. He set his iPad on the bench and they all crowded around.

"Cal and Hal are in the Hathwicks' house and they think they may have found something," I heard him explain. I was on the outside of their little huddle, but that definitely got my attention. I quickly sidled my way along the bench, attempting to squeeze my way in next to the iPad so I wouldn't miss anything. Tank looked at me as I appeared under Bobby's arm. "Amabel, I think you should leave," he said. "This is official business."

Crossing my arms, I raised a single eyebrow at him. "That's my house they're snooping around in," I told him. "I have every right to be here."

After a brief staring contest, he returned his attention to the iPad beside me and tapped a small icon. "Alright Hal, tell us what you've got."

"We're in what looks to be an office," came a disembodied voice. I glanced at the iPad screen and was treated to a panorama of my Dad's old office. Mom and I hadn't gotten around to doing anything about it yet. I think both of us were just hoping that if we ignored its existence long enough it would simply disappear. A lump formed in my throat seeing it for the first time since Dad died. "Lots of photos of the kid and the wife, so I'm assuming it belonged to the vic."

"Dad's office," I confirmed.

"Anyway," another voice emanated from the device as a beefy man appeared on the screen. "We found a disposable cell phone in the desk draw along with a name scrawled on a scrap of paper." He held up both a phone and the scrap of paper. "We'll express the phone to you so that Hector and Hank can have a look at it and I've already texted the name to you."

As if on cue, Tank's cell bleeped from his pocket. He took it out, glanced at it and held the screen out for me to see. "This name mean anything to you?" he asked.

_Martin Hughes_

It sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite pinpoint how I knew the name. I tried to think of everyone I've everyone I'd ever met, but nothing was standing out. After a moment I just shrugged. "It sounds familiar," I offered.

"Maybe something will spark your memory when we search it," Bobby said supportively, earning him dual narrow-eyed stares from Lester and Hank.

Ten minutes later the call ended and Tank tucked the iPad into a protective sleeve. Apart from the phone and the name, Hal and Cal – the guys snooping around in my home – had found a safe behind the family portrait in the living room that they were working on cracking. I was a little shocked by that, who were my parents? Wealthy villains? Why do we need a hidden safe? I kept my opinions to myself though, waiting until they were preparing to ring off before asking the favour that had been niggling at me since I found out they were in my house.

"Can you check if my Mom's been home?" I asked quickly, speaking up for the first time since the text message.

All the men around me looked at me as if I'd grown an extra head and I knew what they were thinking,_ how could they possibly know if she'd been home or not?_ What they were forgetting, though, was that Mom was a creature of habit. Every evening when she came home from work or on the weekends after we'd had dinner, she would cross the day off on the calendar by the back door. If Mom had been home since we left for this trip she would have crossed off all the days we'd been gone. If not, there would be about a week's worth of days leading up to the current date that would be missing their little x's.

It only took a moment for Bobby and I to convince Hal to check the calendar for me and I was so grateful that he actually pointed the camera at the calendar so I could see for myself that he wasn't lying about it. "Everything's all crossed off until the day before yesterday," he announced, telling me what I already knew.

"She didn't go home last night," I murmured to myself, feeling a lump forming in my throat. The knowledge was spinning around in my head. She'd been home since I'd last seen her, but she wasn't home last night. Where had she been? More importantly, where was she now?

"She'll be alright," Bobby assured me, easing into a crouch in front of me. "Hal and Cal promised to scout around town to see if they can find her. Tank is sending them your license plate number right now. If they can find your car she probably won't be far." He placed a hand on my knee and looked up into my face. "Is there anywhere that she might have gone?"

It's hard to imagine what she was thinking when she got home yesterday. She'd been pretty secretive all week. I had no idea where her thoughts were anymore, let alone what she was planning on doing when she got home. I felt so useless right now. I couldn't help Mom, and I couldn't even offer any useful information to help the Rangemen help her. I shrugged again and let my head fall against the wall behind me. "I don't know," I moaned. "I've got no idea what's going on with her."

"That's okay," Bobby said. "We don't need you to know, just give us some ideas. What are the places she frequents?"

I thought about it for a moment, and let out a sigh. "The office, the supermarket-."

"Which supermarket?" Lester interjected. "The same complex as your dad's froghurt shop?"

"IDK," I said automatically before wondering why I was reverting to IM at a time like this. "It depends on what she's after. Some things she can't get at our regular supermarket."

"So they'll check both."

Everyone stiffened at the sound of the voice that filled the room. Authoritative. Masculine. Familiar. Carlos's.

"I thought I told you to wait in the break room," he said when he spotted me.

I really was not in the mood to deal with him at the moment. I had bigger things to worry about, like my mother. I rolled my head to the side to send him a _look_. "I thought your _wife_ sent you to the _time out corner_," I retaliated.

"Touché," he returned, almost smiling.

"Boss!" Lester exclaimed, throwing his arms wide and –probably not by accident – catching Hank in the chest. "You're back!" He was grinning maniacally and taking slow steps toward him. "Come 'ere."

"What are you doing," Carlos questioned. Lester kept coming. "Don't you _dare_ touch-."

He didn't even get to finish his sentence as Lester jumped at him from three feet away, wrapping his arms around him and smearing him with as much paint as he could possibly manage. There was a moment of silence as we all took in what was happening, wondering if we were in some kind of dreamscape. Surely no one ever even thought about touching this guy. He practically exuded _can't-touch-this_ vibes. As we watched Lester somehow dragged Carlos over to the mats and pushed him down, landing on top of his boss.

"Dog pile!" Hank cried, taking a running start and leaping into the air in order to belly flop on top of them with a resounding THWAP! Bobby was a second behind performing a fancy flip through the air before landing on the top of the pile. Already, I was giggling at the sight, but when the doors burst open and half a dozen men came soaring into the room each one landing on top of the previous, I was doubled over with guffaws. This company was like a massive frat house.

They were still rolling around in the paint when I'd almost regained my composure and noticed that Tank was still standing right next to me.

"Why aren't you in there?" I asked, getting to my feet.

Tank had his hands behind his back and his feet spread at shoulder's width, like he was on parade. "I'm not immature," he informed me without even glancing in my direction.

I smirked up at him even though he wasn't looking. "Suuuuure you're not," I drawled.

"I have work to do," he announced and turned on his heels, fairly marching from the room. He thought he could get away from me? It wasn't that easy.

"Or are you just shy?" I asked, skipping my steps as I caught up to him at the doors. He kept walking. A grin spread across my face. "So that's it?" I insisted. "You're shy?"

"Of course not."

We'd reached the second set of doors by now and I was really enjoying teasing him. "Really?" I asked. "If you're not shy, then why aren't you joining in with your friends? Those guys _are_ your friends, right? Friends usually join in with that kind of thing." He remained silent. "Unless you're _not_ their friend," I reasoned as we walked down the hall toward the elevators. "In which case this whole situation is a little junior high. It's a bit like the cool kids were forced to work with you during class, but now that it's recess they want nothing to do with you... or you with them for that matter."

"There's an intern upstairs waiting to be inducted," Tank announced, like it was some kind of explanation.

"Yeah, you're totes shy," I informed him knowingly, pressing the button for the elevator and chuckling when he simply glared at me. "Maybe not emotionally," I conceded. "Which is what most people think when they hear the word shy. But physically. You're a pretty big guy. You're probably insecure about your size."

The doors dinged open and he stepped inside, so I followed in time to see him press the button for the communications floor. We stood quietly waiting for the doors to close so we could get going, me still grinning stupidly, him glaring straight ahead. Just as the doors began to close he dashed out, leaving me alone in the little box.

_Yep. He was most definitely shy._

* * *

><p><em>Shreek has requested that we formally dub Carlos "Mood Swing Ranger." Of course, I can't say no to Shreek. So Carlos is now<em> Mood Swing Ranger_. Don't forget to review._


	22. Chapter 22

_Sorry it's taken so long! My proofreader fell off the face of the earth (her computer died and her chances of borrowing a family computer are sporadic). On top of that, I got distracted, as most of you will probably know, by my series of short stories. Anyway, Shreek was online, and I finished up this chapter and sent it over so she could check it. And voila!_

**Chapter 22**

By the time the elevator doors pinged open on the comm floor, Tank could be seen hurrying across the space toward his office. Probably, he was feeling anxious about my accusations and needed to go give himself a pep talk before he could face the rest of the day. I stepped off out of pure indecision and was rewarded - or possibly punished, I still haven't really made up my mind about any of these guys yet - a moment later, when Steph exited Tank's office and came straight toward me.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, jabbing at the down button.

"Okay, I guess," I hedged. What was I supposed to say? Despite having a great time this morning watching two guys get pummeled by paint pellets (hehe, alliteration), I was really quite miserable about the whole situation. I missed my friends. I missed my mom. And above all, I was missing my dad. It was as if all this talk and investigating had reopened the black gaping hole in my chest where he used to be. What made it worse, was knowing that I was never going to see him again. Ever.

She smiled a little to herself and glanced over at the bank of monitors just to our left. "I trust Lester is keeping you entertained?"

I followed her gaze and saw that the closest monitor to us showed the gym, the centre of which appeared to be a mass of black fabric and muscled limbs. "You could say that," I said, just as the doors pinged open again. She stepped in and motioned for me to join her. After a short hesitation, I followed and we rode back down to the gym in silence. It wasn't until we'd reached the outer door that lead to the equipment room that I finally worked up the courage to ask her the question that was suddenly riding very heavily on my mind.

"Why did you do it?" I asked.

"Do what?" she replied, distractedly.

"Why did you offer to be Mom and Dad's surrogate?" There, I'd said it. It was out in the open. I was curious about it. Hopefully she could provide me with some answers in Mom's absence. Double-hopefully it would be less of a chore to extract information from her that it was with Mom. Whenever I had questions for Mom that she hadn't anticipated, she literally just shut down. She would walk away from me mid conversation. In anticipation of this kind of thing, when I was eleven, Dad got me to write down any questions I had on the subject of the birds and the bees in advance so that she could review my questions before hand and would actually be able to answer them during the conversation. Yeah, for all it could be handy having an organised mother, things could get pretty awkward too.

"-and she just sounded so down that -"

_Crap, she was talking. Probably about Mom and the surrogacy. I should listen. Dammit, I hate coming in the middle of an explanation!_

"Sorry," I muttered. "I zoned for a moment. Could you start again?"

She stopped talking and just stared at me. Her body was completely still as she stood poised to push the gym door open. I was starting to think I'd offended her in some way. That she was staring at me with those wide, Bambi eyes like that because she was forming a healthy hate toward me. But then she held out her hand toward me. Slightly confused, I took it, not wanting to say anything and make matters worse.

Silently, she lead me back down the hall to the elevator and pressed the down button.

"Where are we going?" I asked quietly. I wasn't sure what was on the most of the lower floors of the building.

"I need donuts," she informed me. "Maybe a bear claw."

*o*

"Why did Ranger send you up here anyway?" Cal asked from the couch as he sifted through the pile of documents he'd retrieved from the file draw in the office. "I thought you were part of the investigation back in Trenton."

Hal, his ear pressed against the safe door as he carefully turned the dial, sighed. "Steph was manipulating me for information she wasn't supposed to have, so Tank thought it would better if I was further away from her."

Cal snorted. "Because you're a caver," he told him. "You've gotta grow a back bone, man. You can't just tell her what she wants to hear just because she bats those big blue eyes at you. You've gotta be cold, and hard. Think of her like your mother when she wants to know what you've been up to that has kept you from calling."

"I hate talking to my mother," Hal grumbled.

"Exactly!" Cal exclaimed. "That's the spirit! Pretend she's your mother and you won't want to tell her a single thing."

Trying the handle, Hal grunted and went back to trying to crack the safe.

"Are you sure you're doing it right?" Cal asked a moment later. "Because it seems to me that if you were doing it right," he continued. "We'd be in already. You've been at that for an awfully long time."

Hal stood up straight and glared at him. Cal was right. Ordinarily, under the usual circumstances, he probably would be in already. However, Hal was forced to do this au natural, which was infinitely harder and required much more concentration, something that was short coming with Cal around, it seemed. "I didn't bring my safe cracking tools with me," he defended.

"You mean your glorified stethoscope?" Cal snickered. "Or did you mean your drill? There's probably a drill in the basement or the shed you could use."

"Good idea," Hal replied, ignoring the snide tone and focusing on the useful suggestion. He'd been in the company of Cal for too long to take immediate offense to his comments. "I'll go see if there's one in the basement."

Cal immediately jumped up to follow. "Good idea," he said. "We should check the basement anyway. That's where the vic died."

Nodding his head, Hal stood back to let Cal lead the way. It wasn't that he was scared. That was ridiculous. It was more that he greatly disliked being the first to discover something gross and terrifying. He liked to be informed that there was something gross and terrifying there before he entered. That way he could prepare himself by _pre-_vomiting; a process by which he went outside and vomited before actually seeing what was there so that there was nothing left in his stomach to be brought up when he did eventually enter the room and catch a glimpse of the carnage. It was a method he had developed a while back after being punished once again for contaminating the crime scene with his biological waste.

"You're not scared are you?" Cal called over his shoulder as he switched the light on at the top of the basement stairs. "It's just a basement. It's not like we're going to find any dead bodies."

Hal gulped back the bile that was already rising in his throat. "We will now that you've jinxed it," he wheezed, inching closer to the opening.

"Man, you are such a baby. How on earth did you get into this business anyway?"

"Just go down and check it out," Hal changed the subject. "I'll cover you from up here."

Cal rolled his eyes but started down the steps anyway. Hal, poised and ready to run outside at a moment's notice, listened carefully for the tell tale signs of carnage. It varied depending on the person. Anything from a slight hitch of breath, to a gasp, to a moan, to an exclamation of "Oh, _cool_."

"Oh," Cal's voice drifted up. "Oh, God."

"What is it?" Hal called down, already readying his gag reflex.

"Oh, dear god," Cal repeated. "That's... I think I'm going to be sick."

That was all the information Hal needed. Before you could say, 'dead bodies,' he was out the back door, down the porch steps, and hunched over a bush. As he retched, attempting to bring up yet another surge of his breakfast, he heard laughter drifting through the air just before Cal stepped onto the porch.

"I hate you," Hal moaned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and standing up.

"You make it so easy, man," Cal responded, still laughing. "No wonder Tank shipped you off." At that moment Cal's cell rang. "Yeah?" He listened a moment. "Yeah, we got that memo." Another pause. "Well how do you wanna work it?"

Hal, having sort of recovered, passed Cal on the porch and went to find a glass of water, Cal trailing behind him.

"That'll work well," Cal commented. "Hal still has to crack the safe." Pause. "Yeah, he claims it's because he doesn't have his tools." Laughter. "Cools. We'll meet up tonight to discuss." As he returned his phone to his pocket, Cal tossed a hand drill across the room making Hal scramble to catch it or allow it to fall on his toes. "Get back to work," he instructed. "I've gotta call the hospitals."

"What?"

"Locating Leah Hathwick."

*o*

"Quick," Steph urged, wedging herself behind the wheel of the nearest SUV to the elevators. "Get in, and buckle up. We have a very small window of opportunity."

I did as I was told, strapping myself in as Steph turned the ignition and put the vehicle in gear. I barely had enough time to pull the door closed before Steph was backing out of the parking space and heading toward the garage gate at break-neck speed. It wasn't even fully open before we were through and out onto the street. She didn't slow down, though. She just kept speeding down the road, around the corner and down the next street. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little terrified by her actions. I mean. She's _pregnant_. Shouldn't she be more careful?

"Uh, Steph?" I asked. "Shouldn't we slow down now? This is kind of dangerous."

"Don't worry," she replied easily. "Carlos made me take a defensive driving course when we got engaged."

Why wasn't I surprised by that? Carlos was such a domineering, control freak with a passion for all things dangerous. Of course he would want his wife to be a dangerous driver. Okay, so defensive driving didn't make her dangerous. It was probably knowing Carlos that made her a dangerous driver. I could totes see him having that affect on people.

"Where are we going anyway?" I asked, trying to distract myself from the buildings flying past my window.

"I told you," she sighed, sounding exasperated. "I need donuts."

"Are you going to answer my question?" I was pretty sure she would realise that I wasn't referring to the one she had, in fact, just answered, but the one I'd asked outside the gym.

"Eventually," she assured me. "I think you need to know a little more about me first."

* * *

><p><em>Don't forget to review. I mean it. Or I'll send Mab after you with the paintball guns.<em>


	23. Chapter 23

_In case you haven't read the long winded explanation at the beginning of the second Guns chapter in The Secret Life Of, I've been sick. I'm feeling much better now though, and to prove it, here's the next chapter of That Froghurt Guy. _

**Chapter 23**

Urgent voices.

Flashing lights.

Sirens blaring.

The cool caress of pavement against her cheek, inviting her to sleep.

Jostling.

Prodding.

More urgent voices.

Sirens and a constant beeping.

Then...

Silence.

Darkness.

Everything was still.

Calm.

Peaceful.

*o*

We had our donuts. We had milkshakes to go with them. And we were back in the car. I was driving so that Steph could concentrate solely on ingesting the sugar fest we'd just bought, and by driving I mean I was sitting in the driver's seat of the car as we sat in the parking lot of the bakery.

"Alright," I said, breaking the – slightly comfortably – silence that had fallen in the car as I set my milkshake in the cup holder. "Let's get this thing started. What do I need to know about you before you will tell me why you agreed to sacrifice your body to my mom and dad's desires?"

She sighed and licked her fingers before wiping them on the paper napkin provided. "We should probably get moving. If we stay in one place too long the Merry Men will catch up to us." She gave me some quick directions and sipped on her milkshake as I started the car and pointed it in the direction she'd mentioned. "When I was five I wanted to be a reindeer," she started, eyeing me carefully as I made a turn. "So I could fly."

I wasn't really sure what I should do with that information. It wasn't particularly helpful in figuring out what she was all about. And it wasn't exactly a defining feature. I mean, when I was five I wanted to be a vampire so I could live forever. Now that I've seen _Twilight_ my impression is that vampires are retarded people who are either too obsessed with the hurt and betrayal they've endured in their life to die, or too stupid to know that being a vampire is like condemning yourself to a life where you have to constantly leave the friends you've made in the last couple of years. I didn't consider myself retarded or stupid, so I'd given up on becoming a vampire. Or a werewolf. Because I'm mature enough to realise it was a ridiculous phase I went through. The desire to be a reindeer was just her version of that.

"Okay," I said.

"Then I saw _Peter Pan._ He can fly too, you know. And for ages, all I wanted was to be the... er... boy who never grew up." I glanced over at her when I pulled up to the next set of lights and found that she was blushing. Probably because she'd confessed to wanting to be a boy. "Eventually I discovered Wonder Woman. She was my idol. I wanted to be just like her. I wanted the Lasso of Truth so I could make my mother say exactly what she thought about me. I wanted the Invisible Plane so I didn't have to take the bus to school anymore. And most of all, she too, could fly."

"Yeah, but only post 1960," I pointed out.

Steph gave a short, sharp laugh. "How old do you think I am?" she asked incredulously. "In my era she could always fly."

Just to wind her up, I rolled my eyes. "Riiiiight."

"Anyway, when I was nine I took it a little too far and fell off the neighbour's garage roof right into a rosebush. Not only did I break my arm, I got scratched to buggery by the thorns and was put on an enforced Wonder Woman Detox. So instead, in those games of pretend that every child plays, I was Inspector Gadget, Han Solo and Snake Eye."

"Snake Eye?" I questioned.

"From G.I. Joe," she explained. "Take this left."

For a short while the only sound in the car came from the radio and the slurping shakes. I was trying to simultaneously follow directions and work out the puzzle she'd presented me with the pieces for. I wasn't seeing much except an affinity for fictional characters.

"What are you trying to tell me?" I finally asked. "And where are we going?"

"My favourite place in the world." I waited patiently for her to give a more precise location or perhaps answer my other question. The more important one. Relevant to now. "When I was in college I volunteered in a soup kitchen four nights a week. Mostly because if I was working there they'd allow me a meal, which meant less money spent on food and more money to spend on more important things."

"Like drinking?" I asked.

"Occasionally."

I was starting to see a pattern. I think. There was obviously a reason she was telling me the stuff she was telling me in the combination she was using. Otherwise she wouldn't be telling me. I don't really need to know who she pretended to be when she was playing as a kid. Except in this instance it spoke of her character.

Flying Reindeer: Pull Santa's sleigh to aid his gift giving endeavours.

Peter Pan: Saves Tinkerbell and the Lost Boys. Combats evil in his own special way. Helps Wendy and her brothers get back home.

Wonder Woman: Super hero. Saves the world on a daily basis.

Inspector Gadget: Uses his gadget-ness to save the world from bad guys (even if he is a bit of a klutz at times).

Han Solo: Essentially a good guy that helps the others out.

Snake Eye: Um... G.I. Joes are good guys too, right?

The Soup Kitchen: Helping people in need.

Bounty Hunting: If what I'd heard was true, she more often helped prove her marks were innocent than simply taking them in.

As we approached a boardwalk area, Steph put her milkshake cup back in the holder and screwed up the rubbish of the donut packaging. "Find somewhere to park along here," she requested.

*o*

Ranger exited the communal shower in the gym, a towel draped around his hips and water sliding down his tan chest. He was still chuckling from a joke Lester had shouted out as he rubbed a second towel over his hair. When he reached his locker, intending to put on the spare clothes he kept there, he remembered that he had used them the previous week and had yet to replace them. With a nonchalant shrug he moved to the cupboard at the end of the locker room and pulled out a pair of the company spares to substitute until he could get upstairs to the emergency stash he still kept in the seventh floor apartment.

The men were mucking about as they too exited the shower room and made beelines for their lockers. Then, one after the other, they crossed to the company spares and pulled out a set. Apparently they'd all used their gym spares recently. Either that or Ella had taken them for laundry.

Having pulled on his sweats and t-shirt, Ranger was seated on the bench cleaning and putting on his boots when Hawk burst into the room looking stressed and out of breath.

"They're gone," he puffed, leaning over with his hands on his knees. "The girls are gone."

"What?" Ranger spat, reefing on the second boot before he'd finished wiping all the pain off. "How long ago? Where are they?" Hawk said nothing for just a moment too long, irritating Ranger to no end. Without giving it any thought, he was off the bench and wrenching Hawk against the locker. "Where. The fuck. Are they?" he seethed in his face, hands tightening around his neck as he increased the pressure.

"The SUV tracker says they're at the bakery," he squeaked, eyes bugging out of his head. "Steph's tracker says they're in the middle of the highway not moving. Amabel's says they're at Point Pleasant."

"Lester," Ranger called, shoving Hawk to the side and bending over to finish securing his boot.

Three sets of booted feet hurried passed the corner of his eye, heading for the door. "We're on it, Boss. I'll have the SUV running and waiting for you. Hank and Bobby are going ahead and will check out the first two locations."

As Lester left the room, trailing the others, Ranger speared Hawk with an intense look. "I'll deal with you later."

*o*

"Trinity Hospital Emergency," she answered the phone as it rang. "How may I help you?"

"I'm trying to locate one Leah Hathwick," the man on the other end announced. "I was wondering if you could tell me if she'd been admitted there."

She rolled her eyes. The amount of times she'd gotten this same exact phone call. Abusive boyfriends looking for their beat up girlfriends so they could crawl back on their hands and knees asking for forgiveness. And they always forgive. No way was she going to give this guy the time of day. She had better things to do with her time. Like that pile of filing that had been building since early yesterday afternoon.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said down the phone, affecting her most polite and innocent tone of voice. "I'm not authorised to give you that information." _And now_, she thought to herself, idly tapping away at the keys of her computer, _he will either get angry and yell at me, or try to convince me it is pertinent that he find this woman because she has been placed under his protective supervision. _

"You don't understand," he said. "I need to find her. She's quite possibly in danger. She's been entrusted to the care of the security company I work for, Rangeman LLC."

"Look, sir, it wouldn't matter if you were the President. I can't give you that information."

_And now he'll ask to speak to someone who can._

"Could you transfer me to someone who can?" he requested, as if reading cue cards she'd personally prepared ahead of time.

"Please hold," she requested and hit a button on the phone. She spun in her chair and called across the nurse's station. "Linda! We've got another abusive looking for his girlfriend!"

Linda was the best in these situations. On several occasions in the past she'd practically convinced the caller that they did not, in fact, want to locate the woman. That they, instead, wanted to make a donation to the hospital. And believe me, every little donation counts. So as the latest ambulance screeched up to the door, she transferred the call to Linda's desk and hurried out to help. The doors on the back burst open and the EMTs dragged out a stretcher.

"She's barely hanging on," the first one – Arnie – announced as rushed past. "God only knows how long she was in that alley before someone stumbled across her."

They paused a moment to readjust the lines leading from the woman they were escorting and the nurse gasped. "Oh my God," she breathed. "That's Amabel Hathwick's mother." A sudden thought occurred to her. "Oh my _God_!" She spun back around and raced back to the nurse's station. "Linda! Trace the call! The woman's just turned up!" Fumbling with her keys, she attempted, with shaking hands, to unlock the desk draw where she kept her cell phone, her thoughts on poor Leah as she wondered where Amabel was.

"Where are you going?" Linda asked, hand over the receiver as she watched her dash out of the space.

"I have to call my daughter," she replied hurriedly, pointing in the direction the EMTs had taken Leah. "That was her friend's mother."

*o*

I was just working out how to phrase my discovery as we settled on the sand under a tree, when Steph abruptly interrupted my thoughts.

"Someone's thinking of you," she told me.

"Huh?" I uttered. Did I mention I had a way with words?

She pointed to my neck. "The clasp on your necklace is at the front," she explained. "It means someone's thinking of you."

I blinked. She was absolutely serious about this. "That's... uh... creepy," I said.

Steph nodded her agreement. "Yep." And she took a long slurp of her milkshake.

* * *

><p><em>Please don't forget to review.<em>


	24. Chapter 24

_If I were in the habit of naming these chapters, this one would probably be called something along the lines of "Hodge Podge." I'm so glad to have finally gotten this chapter done. Parts of it have been tormenting me for close to two months. And other parts are just the characters going completely off script. I'm serious. I had a nice little outline for this chapter all written out in green sharpie. And I was writing away on my way to work and BAM Hawk and Tank defy me. Not long after, Cal joined in. It's like they're protesting on your behalf or something..._

**Chapter 24**

"Tanned six pack in a speedo at eigh o'clock," Soph murmured lowering her sunglasses in order to catch a better view of the hunk now entering the pool area of the hotel they were staying at.

"Where's eight o'clock?" Carls questioned turning her head slowly as she scanned the ever growing crowd. They'd been lazing in the deck lounges drinking iced water since ten o'clock that morning, spying on all the well toned swimmers. This had become a kind of ritual for the pair as they rated bods for a couple of hours before lunch each day before moving on to the beach to rate surfer bods for most of the rest of the day.

Soph, still admiring the Gift from God as he slipped into the water, shook her head in dismay. "I told you. Twelve o'clock is directly in front of us, so that makes eight o'clock the outer pool gate and three o'clock the door to the hotel."

"Right," Carls agreed, looking toward the gat only to be disappointed as a large hairy man entered. Shuddering at the sight of his beer gut and man boobs, she asked her friend. "What can't we just say gate and door?"

"Because it's more covert this way," Soph sighed. "It adds to the thrill."

"And the confusion," Carls muttered.

After another ten minutes of scoping out all the hot men they realised the hot-to-not ratio was drastically out of proportion and decided it was time for lunch.

Meanwhile, six floor up, in their hotel room, Carls's cell phone – which she had left on charge this morning rather than risking it dying while they were out tonight – was going ballistic. Seventeen missed calls fished on the screen, kept company by nine voice messages and four texts, all from her mother.

*o*

Having finished explaining the intricate inner workings of Rangeman LLC to the new recruit, Tank led him out to the communications centre to start the obligatory grand tour of the building. So far things were going well. The kid – for at seventeen, whether he was working to support his family or not, that's what he still was – came from a decent background. His step-father and uncle had both served in the military, the former having been killed in the line of duty five years ago. The uncle was actually Zip, one of the HR team and had done a lot of convincing to get his step-nephew the internship.

As they paused at the bank of monitors, Tank happened to glance at the screens showing the gym and adjoining locker room. Both were deserted.

"Where's Ranger?" he asked the nearest Rangman.

Hawk glanced wearily up at the big black man and, fearful of his almighty wrath, mumbled, "He left with a team to track down Bombshell and Amabel, sir."

Tank, with the hearing of a bat, had not missed a single word Hawk uttered, yet still found himself asking, "What?" in a terse tone.

"He left with a -," Hawk began to repeat, but was cut off by Tank's almighty wrath.

"I heard what you said," he grit out. "What I need to know is _why_ Ranger would need to take a team and go track down two women that are supposed to stay within the building unless accompanied by – if they're together – no less than three men?"

Hawk gulped back an apparent lump that was forming in his throat. "They, uh... they snuck out, sir."

Feeling his entire body tense with rage, Tank clenched his fist. The building was secure. Cameras at every turn, monitored around the clock by trained professionals. That these two girls could sneak out was an absurd notion. Finally, he managed to regain enough control to ask one final question.

"How?"

Before Hawk could muster the courage to explain how he had been less than vigilant in his duties, the new recruit spoke up, deistracting them all from the situation for the time being.

"Did you say Amabel?" he enquired almost hesitantly. At the short nod from both men, he asked his next question. "She doesn't go by Mab, does she?" They stared at him. "As in the evil chick from the legend of Merlin?" he prompted. "sister to the Lady of the Lake or whatever?"

Tank exchanged a meaningful look with Hawk and in a move so perfectly choreographed it would make Olympic Synchronised Swimmers jealous, they each grabbed him under an arm and together hauled him off to an interrogation chamber.

*o*

"Hathwick residence," Hal greeted, picking up the ringing landline. The moment he spoke the line went dead. With a shrug he placed it back in the dock and turned back toward the safe only to find Cal giving him a _what-the-fuck_ look. "It wouldn't stop ringing!" Hal defended. "How am I supposed to crack a safe with that thing ringing away in the background?"

Cal thanked the person on the other end of his cell phone connection for their cooperation and hung up, simply staring Hal for a long moment. "What's gonna happen when they call back?" he asked. "Or better yet, when the police turn up?"

"We spin a tale about house sitting," Hal suggested, fiddling with the cup he'd left on the mantle. "If worst comes to worst we can always call Amabel to cover our asses."

"And if she won't?" Cal countered. "We can't guarantee that she'll help us out. She could be covering for her mother."

"Why would she need to cover for her mother?" Hal asked. "Leah is just as much a victim in all this as Amabel is."

Dropping his cell phone into the open telephone book, Cal stood and began pacing across the room. A million possibilities were racing through his head, but he couldn't grasp at any of them for more than a second at a time. Something about treating Leah as the victim didn't seem right to him. If she were truly a victim she would have jumped at their offer of assistance in finding her husband's killer, but instead she had barely mentioned the situation to them and then disappeared when they'd agreed to help keep Amabel safe. There was definitely more to her side of things than they knew.

A sudden idea occurred to him, and without a word to his partner, he hurried from the room, taking the stairs to the second floor two at a time. When he reached the master bedroom he paused, listening to Hal's stumbling footsteps as he tried to catch up. A great feeling of anticipation rose in his chest as he reached for the doorknob. It opened just as Hal skidded to a halt beside him.

"What are you doing?" he huffed.

Pushing the disappointment of not finding the door locked aside, Cal explained, "There has to be a reason that Leah didn't want us to help. She's hiding something. We need to find out what."

"I thought we were supposed to be finding out about the husband."

"We will," Cal assured him. "But for now, we need to figure this out. Go back and crack the safe, there might be something in there. I'm gonna check out the bedroom."

*o*

We were silent a moment as I fixed my necklace and Steph tried to manoeuvre her girth into a comfortable position in the sand. I was feeling especially awkward being alone with her. I kept expecting her to exclaim that this wasn't in the plan, or to wring her hands nervously like Mom did. But she didn't, and I doubted she would. It was like nothing fazed her. From what I'd heard and seen on television, pregnant women were supposed to be hormonal and a skittish, but to me, it appeared that Steph had found a way to transfer all her hormonal imbalances and anxieties to her husband. Everything she did, everything she said, had an air of confidence and calmness.

"I think I know what you're trying to show me," I told her, flattening an area on the sand to rest my drink on. "You need to help people," I stated when she indicated that I should continue. "It's a bit like you have a hero complex. If there's a way you can 'save' someone, you'll go to any length to do so."

Steph blinked at me, appearing surprised, but soon ironed out her raised eyebrows and wide eyes into an amused grin. "It's never been put _quite_ like that before," she mentioned. "But, essentially, you're right. Dad always said it was both my gift and my bane to help others." She chuckled. "I never really understood what he meant until I started bounty hunting."

"Do you regret it?" I asked solemnly, staring at a trail of ants marching past my toes. "What you did for Mom and Dad, I mean."

Suddenly, I could feel her eye boring into the side of my head and knew she was willing me to look at her, but I wouldn't bring myself to meet her gaze. If I didn't look at her, I wouldn't see the inevitable lie when she told me that she didn't regret. I could live with the lie if I didn't see the pity in her eyes when she said it.

"Sweetie, look at me," she urged, scooting closer. "I want you to see how much I mean it when I answer your question." Slowly, I turned my head to stare directly into her eyes. She gave me a smile and took my hand in hers, rubbing her thumb across the back of my hand in a reassuring gesture. "Seeing you now. Knowing how well you've turned out. Witnessing the love and understanding that you show to those you care about. I don't rent out my womb to you parents. Not one bit. Was I apprehensive about what my family and friends might think if they ever found out about what I'd done? Of course I was. In fact, I still am sometimes. My mother judges me harshly on everything I do, every single decision I make in my life. If I handed her that kind of information, her head might just explode with all the ways she could punish me. Was I scared to death that I'd screwed my life? From time to time. But I never once regretted doing what I did." She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I might have resented you and Leah a little during the months directly after the birth. I mean, there Leah was with the perfect family, but none of the excess flab. And there I was with all the excess flab and none of the perfect family."

I wasn't sure what to say to that, but I at least knew she was being absolutely honest. After a long awkward moment of indecision, I slid right up next to her and gave her a hug. "Thank you," I murmured against her shoulder.

"For what?" she asked, and I could hear the frown in her voice even as she chuckled the words out.

"For my existence, I guess," I shrugged, pulling away a little. "I would reassure you about your figure, but give your current state, I can't be sure you ever got rid of the original baby fat."

"Are you calling me fat?" Steph asked, looking and sounding like she was about to go into a rage. I have to admit, it was weird for me to witness the flare of emotion after she'd been so cool, calm and collected ever since I'd met her. There was a very long moment of _holy-crap-how-am-I-going-to-dig-myself-out-of-this-hole?-I-should-know-better-than-to-insult-a-pregnant-woman_ before Steph cracked a grin and laughed at me. "I'm kidding, Mab. I know I'm fat."

And that's when a hoarse shout reach out ears. From the way the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and Steph's back stiffened, I knew it was none other than Ricardo Carlos Manoso, come to drag us back to our state of the art, luxury prison. Pounding footsteps soon followed and we both turned slowly to gaze upon a huffing and puffing Carlos, fairly sprinting toward us, trailed by four Rangemen pelting full speed in an attempt to catch up. What amused by about this sight was, while the Rangemen were moving at a much swifter pace than Carlos, he was the one that was out of breath when he lumbered to a stop behind us. Sweat glistened on his brow and he bent at the waist to get his breathing under control.

"Woah, Boss," Lester exclaimed, as he arrived under our tree. "That was the worst running I've seen you do in forever!"

"It probably doesn't help that he's been snacking so much lately," Hank agreed, coming to rest beside Lester at the same time as Bobby.

"Full sugar snackage," Bobby added.

As Lester plopped down in the sand and began unlacing his boots I realised that they were all dressed in "Property of Rangeman" gear. This amused me greatly. They could all suffer.

"It's one thing for Bombshell to be eating all the sugary stuff," Lester commented, removing one boot and sock and setting it aside to work on the other. "She already ate excess sugar and fat before she got pregnant. Her body can handle it. But, Boss, you gotta cut back. You're body's not used to that crap."

Hank, I noticed, was also removing his boots, although he did this from a mostly upright position. "Lester's right. Just because Bomber has cravings doesn't mean you have to join her in eating the junk she desires. Sometimes it's better not to share meals."

I was trying really hard to suppress a snicker at the ribbing the guys were giving Carlos. It was funnier than an old fat man stepping on a roller skate and tumbling down the stairs. And he absolutely deserved it all. In my opinion, at least. I mean, he'd been nothing but an asshole to me since I arrived in his building. So what if his wife had kept a little secret from him? That was no reason to treat me the way he did.

Just as I was about to add in my two cents worth to the conversation, I was distracted by the strangest noise I'd ever heard. As one, we all spun to stare at Carlos. He was still bent at the waist, but I had a feeling he was no longer trying to get control of his breathing. His shoulders were heaving and he had his hands covering his face. As I watched, completely and utterly aghast, the strange noise sounded again. Simultaneously, we all gasped. It was Carlos! For Christ's Sake! He was _sobbing_!

*o*

Lester felt as if his world were spinning. He'd seen things in his time in the service that had sent him off kilter, but this had him absolutely floored. Ricardo Carlos "Ranger" Manoso was _crying_. Not a simple tear in the corner of his eye at the loss of a colleague. No, this was full on, snotting, heaving, sobbing, and bawling his eyes out. If he were a lesser man he might have fainted at the sight.

"Ranger?" he heard Steph call softly. "Honey, what's wrong?"

Ranger didn't answer.

Hank's elbow jabbed Lester's ribs violently, followed by a fervent whisper. "You made him cry!"

"Me?" he retorted. "_I'm_ not the one who mentioned his pudge!"

"I never used the word pudge!" Hank countered.

"Tomayto-potahto," Lester responded.

Bobby let out a long suffering sigh. "It's tomayto-_tomahto_."

At that, Lester was on his feet. "Are you _trying_ to pick a fight with me?" he demanded, squaring... or perhaps more accurately, triangling off with his potential opponents. Ranger and the girls were all but forgotten.

"Maybe I am!" Bobby exclaimed, loosening his shoulders

"Oh, hell no," Hank uttered. "If anyone's fighting Lester is me!"

"Girls!" Amabel cried, suddenly standing in the middle of them all. "Girls, you're _all_ pretty. Now can we figure out what the crap to do about that?"

The men followed her finger as she pointed in the direction Ranger had just stormed off in.

"Now look what you've done!" Lester said exasperatedly, plopping back down to reef his shoes onto his feet.

"Me?" Hank questioned. "You're blaming me for this?"

"Of course we're blaming you for this," Bobby explained. "You called him fat."

*o*

Steph watched as the men hurried after their leader, wondering what she'd done to deserve this life. Maybe she was an assassin in a previous life and now she had to suffer this insanity as her punishment.

"Could you give me a hand up?" she asked Mab on a sigh. "I should probably go and salvage what's left of Carlos's dignity."

Mab dutifully held out a hand for Steph to take, bracing herself in the sand, ready to pull her up. "Are things always this crazy around here?" she asked.

"I think they're all going bonkers," she announced. "Ranger being unbalanced is screwing with their heads and they've all kicked into overdrive. Usually he'd come find me by himself. Or send Tank if he was busy."

The slow evil grin that bloomed on Mab's features was enough to set anyone's suspicion alarm off. "So you admit your husband is unbalanced?" she enquired.

Steph rolled her eyes good naturedly. _If only she knew that this was just a different kind of unbalanced,_ she thought.

* * *

><p><em>Cue maniacal laughter from both me and Shreek. Don't forget to review<em>


	25. Chapter 25

_Yay! An update! Everyone do the update dance with me *dances*. The majority of this chapter was either written on a train or waiting for a bus. I love the feeling of having the ideas flow so freely. Oh! And watch this space for a new little one shot I have to write involving voodoo and body swapping._

**Chapter 25**

Some things in life are simply too hilarious for words. Carlos crying and storming away like a five year old girl was hilarious, but what happened when we all caught up with him just went above and beyond the realms of hilarity description. I swear to God, it was one of those _Is this really happening? _moments. Almost like an out of body experience. You might think I'm exaggerating, but seriously, this is exactly how it happened:

We caught up to Bobby, Hank and Lester at the entrance to a candy store. I kid you not. Steph and I were immediately suspicious of what they were doing, because a) I didn't peg Carlos for a candy kind of person (just like I didn't think he was a cake person) and b) Steph _knew_ her husband wasn't a candy kind of guy. I'm pretty sure the Rangemen were aware of this face as well, especially since they each sported a bemused expression spread across their faces. While I stood there trying to work out what the hell they were up to, Steph was a step ahead, already asking the questions running through my head. "What are you doing? What are you up to? Where's Carlos? Why are you grinning like that?" And I would gladly relay the answers to all those questions, except she asked them all in rapid succession, barely allowing anyone time to breath between.

She'd just uttered her final question in the sequence when Carlos exited the candy store – I guess that why we were all congregated outside it. I had to do a double take when I saw him, though. His usually annoyingly perfect face was slightly red and puffy, and a lollipop stick was hanging out of his mouth. I choked on the laughter that burbled up in my throat. This guy had some serious issues right about now. But that wasn't best of all. Oh no. It gets much, _much_ better in the funny department, because when Steph noticed his lollipop she got this really stern look on her face. "I hope you have enough for everyone," she admonished, and Carlos obediently ducked his head and went back inside.

I looked over at the guys, who were all red-faced from holding in their laughter. The moment the door swung closed the gently murmur of voices that filled the moderately busy street was interrupted by an eruption of barking laughter, myself and Steph included in the guffaws. People nearby were staring at us like we were weird.

After a moment or seventeen, when we finally managed to calm ourselves, we all started assuming neutral expressions. Carlos was unpredictable at best and we weren't about to let him catch us laughing at him.

"Oh!" Steph exclaimed suddenly. "I have to pee!" And just like that our fragile composure was shattered into a million teeny tiny pieces. "You guys!" She huffed over our guffaws, still giggling herself. "I'm serious! I neeeeeeed to peeeeee! Don't make me laugh! My bladder is under enough stress as it is!"

With a gallant effort we finally sobered up and Hank and Lester accompanied Steph to a nearby restroom.

"Heard from your Mom yet?" Bobby asked leaning against the store front window and crossing his arms casually over his chest. In his _Property of Rangeman_ get up he looked pretty much like any sponsored athlete, relaxing between training sessions. He didn't fool me though, I wasn't about to forget that he was a security professional, nor that he was medically trained. Odds are he's got a least a little bit of psych up his sleeves as well. I wanted to not trust him for this reason, but unfortunately, of all the Rangemen, Bobby was the easiest to talk to. He didn't smother or hover; he was just there. The way I saw it, I had two choices: keep everything to myself – which wouldn't help anyone – or open up to Bobby. Steph would have been the obvious option, given that a) she gave birth to me (I'm still wrapping my head around that one, but I feel it gives us a connection that may aid our relationship if we get past the awkward stage) and b) she's a fellow woman and understands the needs of women, but after hearing her explanation as to why she rented her womb out to my parents, and considering her current condition, I didn't want to over burden her. I mean, I wouldn't shut her out or anything, that's just mean. I just wasn't going to rely entirely on her for the solving of my life's problems.

So back to Bobby's question.

I sighed and leaned against the window next to him. "Not a peep," I admitted. "My phone's been silent all day. Not even a wish-you-were-here text from Soph and Carls."

"They're the friends you were supposed to go to the beach with?"

I nodded my affirmation. "They usually text me at least once a day. And I haven't heard from David either."

"David?" Bobby asked curiously.

I had to open my big trap, didn't I? Talking to Bobby about Mom, the situation, and my friends was one thing, but boys? Why did I have to dip my toe into those waters?

"This guy I met a couple of days ago," I sighed, diligently avoiding looking in his direction. If I saw his expression I'd blush, and I hate blushing. "He works at this pizza place in Atlantic City... And a convenience store." I paused, wondering what Bobby was thinking, or if he was even listening at all. I delved onward. "We went on a sort of date day before last and I haven't seen or heard from him since."

"Sort of date?" he questioned and I felt his curious glance.

"I'm not really sure what it was," I admitted. "We had a really good time, whatever it was."

"Do you want it to be a date?"

_OMG! What's with all the get-into-your-head questions?_ I was seriously rethinking this open-up-to-Bobby idea. I don't need to be analysed. "Know what," I said on a spur of the moment decision. "Maybe I'll keep the boy talk for Steph."

To my surprise, Bobby let out a long slow breath. "Good idea," he agreed, sounding immensely relieved. A marginally comfortable silence fell over us until the others returned. And then Carlos was back as well, dumping a bag of sweets in Steph's waiting hands.

"It's like Christmas!" she squealed, jiggling in place. "Here," she offered, holding the bag out as she stuck a lollipop in her own mouth. "Take one and pass it on."

I chose a purple flavoured one, because purple is the best flavour in the world, and handed the bag to Bobby. As the bag travelled around the group – Lester tried to take two – I scrutinised Carlos. He seemed to be back to stoic-Carlos, which I think is probably his natural state. His lollipop was gone and his blotchy-puffiness had mysteriously amended itself, almost like he had frightened the imperfections away. _Damn him._

With all of us satisfied that we weren't being neglected, we started back in the direction of the SUVs. I'm not sure when they all discussed who was going in which vehicle – I assumed we would all just go back to the ones we came in – but without so much as a significant glance to one another, they sectioned off. Bobby went to the first SUV on his own and I tried to follow, but he shooed me away. So I turned to Lester and Hank as they approached the second vehicle. Lester shook his head. I sighed as the realisation that I would have to ride in the same SUV as Carlos filtered into my brain.

Life is so unfair.

*o*

Ranger was beginning to worry about the state of his mental health. Having mood swings from neutral to angry in two seconds flat was one thing. But crying? That was unacceptable. There was something going on inside him that was seriously unbalanced and he had to get to the bottom of it. Soon. Preferably before it got any worse. As soon as they got back to Rangeman, he decided, he would speak to Bobby and get his professional opinion.

For now, he stood by the last SUV in line with his wife, watching his men buckle up and prepare to leave a short distance away. Not far away was Amabel, slouched against a sign post, muttering to herself.

"Are you okay?" Steph asked him, slipping her hand into his and squeezing gently.

He looked down into her beautiful blue gaze and marvelled anew at how fortunate he was to have her not just in his live, but by his side for all eternity. Briefly tightening his own grip in return, he assured her, "I'm fine, Babe." As she raised her eyebrows at him – probably, she only meant for one to move – Ranger pulled her snug against his side, wrapping an arm around her back. "I'm just grateful you're okay," he fibbed, before softly kissing her hair. There was definitely a lot more going on than him being happy she was safe, but now was not the time to discuss it.

Steph leaned closer, tilting her head back to maintain eye contact. She parted her lips to say something, however, Ranger took it as an invitation, swooping in and covering her mouth with his own. Her body tensed in surprise for no longer than a nanosecond. As his hands skimmed along her back, his fingers burrowing into her hair which today was left to hang loosely around her shoulders, she moaned in encouragement. He tilted her head a little more in order to travel his lips down the column of her neck to her collar. Steph looped her arms around his neck, apparently feeling the need to anchor herself.

Holding his woman in his arms like this helped Ranger regain a sense of who he was. The normal him. The him without an emotional rollercoaster. Without junk in his system. A him that was in control. Revelling in the feeling, he coasted rough, fleeting kisses up the other side of her throat until he once again reached her mouth.

"You tasted like strawberries," he whispered against her lips. He loved tasting the sweetness of her and feeling that slight sugary rush from the candy she ate. _This is how it's supposed to be_, he though, licking his lips and accidentally-on-purpose making contact with his wife's in the process.

"I have a strawberry lollipop," she whispered, sounding dazed.

"Where did you get that?" he teased, nipping at her lower lip and enjoying the shivers that coursed through his partner's body, causing her to press against him more firmly.

"From some hunky man by the candy store," she admitted.

At that moment Ranger's phone buzzed on his belt. A small sigh left his lips, accompanied by the urge to roll his eyes and he gently untangled one hand from Steph's hair to answer it.

"Speak," he commanded, noting that it was Lester's cell. Wasn't it always the way that whenever he shared an intimate moment with the love of his life one of his men would interrupt? He imagined that was what it was like to have children.

"My, what wonderful phone manners you have," came Amabel's sarcastic voice down the line.

"What are you doing with Lester's phone?" he questioned, feeling the calmness he'd managed to regain in the past few moments slowly seeping out of him via his feet.

"Mine's dead," she responded easily. "Don't worry, I'll give it back when we're done talking."

Ranger hung up, but did not put the phone away, knowing instinctually that the girl would not give up that easily. And right on cue, the phone buzzed again.

"You hung up on me!" she admonished as soon as he put it to his ear.

"You didn't give Lester his phone back," Ranger countered.

"I said when we were finished talking."

Ranger, always one to play by his own rules, stated firmly, "We're done talking." And hung up a second time. It took only a moment for her to call back this time. Frustration welled up in his chest as he removed both hands from his wife and glared over his shoulder at the girl who was no more than three car lengths away.

"Answer the phone!" she called to him, pointing at the phone she held in her hand.

Steph chuckled.

"Why can't she just come over here?" he grumbled.

"Here, let me answer it," Steph suggested, extricating the phone from his grasp. "Hello Mab," she greeted. There was a pause, followed by a twinkle in her eye as she held the phone out to him. "It's for you."

Ranger raised a single eyebrow at her. A challenge.

"Come on, Carlos," she urged quietly. "Just talk to her and see what she wants. He crossed his arms over his chest, prompting Steph to pull out the big guns; she batted her eyes and looked up at him through her lashes, a small pout forming. "For me?"

An internal struggle warred within him as he tried to resist the only person – apart from his mother and abuela – who could ever successfully _make_ him do anything. Eventually, she got tired of waiting for his decision and simply held the phone to his ear.

"Why don't you wanna talk to me?" Amabel asked, sounding hurt, though there was a hint of laughter to her voice.

"Why don't you come over and if you want to talk?" _Why was he playing questions with this kid?_

"If I walk over there Lester and Hank will drive off and I'll be left with no other choice but to share the same breathing space as you for the entire ride home," she explained.

"You're doing that anyway," Ranger stated.

"I'd rather not," she replied. "You have a tendency to make me feel uncomfortable, and while I've had longer drives, I'd prefer to do this one in a little bit of comfort."

Ranger blinked. He couldn't remember the last time someone had admitted that to him. All the anger and frustration he'd felt toward this kid vanished instantly. "You can go with Lester if you wish," he allowed, surprised by the pang in his chest as he said it._ What was happening to him?_ "But I think Steph would enjoy having your company on the drive."

The dial tone sounded in his ear and he looked from the phone to his wife (who was still holding it) before glancing over his shoulder again. Amabel was talking to Lester as she handed over the borrowed cell phone. What she did next, though, surprised him. Instead of moving to the back door and hopping in, she started toward Ranger.

"Manipulative," Steph muttered. "You always have to get your own way, don't you?"

"I told her she could go," he defended.

"Yes," she agreed. "And I was very proud of you for doing so, but it appears that your little addition to the end has given her a guilt trip and she now feels like she _should_ ride with us for _my_ sake."

"No," Amabel disagreed as she approached, having caught the end of what Steph was saying. "I just thought I should give you the keys to the SUV."

Confused, Ranger looked from Amabel to the keys she held out, to his wife, to the SUV in question, finally asking. "Why do you have the keys?"

Amabel shrugged. "Because I drove."

*o*

Kelly hung up the desk phone and spun her chair to face her fellow nurse. Linda had just returned from checking on a patient in one of the exam rooms and was leaning against the counter.

"I can't get ahold of Carla," Kelly sighed. "And some man answered the phone at the Hathwick's place. I'm starting to get really worried."

Linda came around the counter and picked up her own desk phone as she dumped herself into her chair. "Alright, I'll call the police to check out the Hathwick's place. You keep trying to find Amabel. Didn't you say Carla was at the coast with a friend? Have you tried her?"

Kelly had a small spurt of hope before it was washed down the drain. "I don't have Sophie's number."

"What about her mother? Look the number up online if you have to. We'll find her, Kel. Just keep trying."

*o*

This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for my entire life. I was finally going to see someone's head actually explode. At least, that's what it looked like was going to happen. A vein was ticking in his forehead. The veins in his neck were straining, just like the ones in his arms and hands. His fists clenched. I totes thought he was gonna start screaming at me any moment now, but he didn't. Instead, he turned to his wife and spoke at a normal frequency through gritted teeth.

"Why was she driving?"

Steph rubbed her stomach, seemingly unfazed by her husband's anger. "Because I needed to concentrate on my donuts," she said matter-of-factly.

"Babe!" he groaned. "Our insurance doesn't cover temporary teenage wards."

Steph blinked, looking slightly startled. "The SUVs are insured?"

"Of course they are!"

"I suppose they're the ones that pay for the replacements?" she suggested, looking thoughtful. I wondered what that was about.

Carlos shook his head, seeming to have calmed from his rage of a few moments ago. "No, they don't. Your habit of exploding the SUVs and injuring the men has made things rather tense with the insurers." Right. Now I remembered. She was called Bombshell for a reason. Apparently she was a complete disaster. "The insurers have added a special section to the form to state whether you were involved in any damage or injuries at Rangeman. They won't cover it if you're involved. They see you as a liability."

Huh. That's a bit mean. I mean, even klutzes need insurance. "Wait," I said suddenly, "If the insurance doesn't pay out for the cars she destroys, how do you replace them?"

Steph rolled her eyes at my question. "It's like I've always assumed. He _has a guy_."

"What do you mean I _have a guy_?" Carlos questioned, looking a little confused.

I laughed. For a tough guy, he sure didn't know much about tough guy films. I put on a fake Italian-American Mobster accent and said, "You know, I got a guy who knows a guy who can get stuff done." Steph chuckled as Carlos stared at me. "Anyway," I added, "I wanna hear more about these disasters, so I'm coming in your car. And FYI, Carlos, you have a lollipop stuck in your hair."

* * *

><p><em>Don't forget to review! We're getting close to a discovery! I promise!<em>


	26. Chapter 26

_It's taken a while for me to actually be able to write anything. For a few days I was hell bent on writing my most recent one shot "You Remind Me of the Man" which can now be found in the archives or via my profile page, but after a while it started to piss me off. We were having major differences in opinion as to where it should go. So I stopped writing it. Couldn't write ANYTHING for like a week and a half. Then yesterday, I sat down at my laptop and the words started flowing again. Happy Sunday, every one. Have a new chapter._

**Chapter 26**

"How are we going to tell Mab?"

I came to a complete halt when I heard my name incorporated in a question drifting out of the conference room I was passing en route of the break. The guys and Steph had all been hole up in there since the moment we returned from Point Pleasant. And I mean _the moment_. Tank was waiting in the garage when our convoy coasted in and insisted that they all come up to the conference room immediately. Of course this left me alone, but I couldn't quite bring myself to be upset about it. After twenty-four hours of being constantly in the presence of these guys I was glad to have a little time alone.

With my new found alone-ness, I'd made my way to the apartment I was staying in on the fourth floor, intending to put my phone on charge. It wasn't until I'd gotten there that I'd realised that I didn't have the charger. So I dumped the phone on my bed and decided to grab some lunch. That was the mission in my mind when Bobby's question caused my curiosity to spike.

"You mean how are we going to break it to Mab that Cal was digging around in her mom's underwear drawer?" Lester clarified.

I could have sworn that my chin touched the floor as my jaw dropped open. _He what?_ Hoping I had simply misheard him, I moved closer to the door in order to listen in.

"I wasn't digging around in it," a voice I didn't recognise defended. It sounded like it was being filtered through a phone line, so I guessed it was one of the guys they'd sent to Minot to keep an eye on things there.

"You said, and I quote, I found it in her lingerie drawer," Hank persisted.

The same voice – which I assumed was this Cal guy Lester had made reference to - replied in the same defensive tone, "_I_ didn't say that. _Hal_ did."

"Whatever," Lester chipped in. "The point is, you were perving on Leah."

Oh. Em. Gee! I can't believe these guys! My mother is _missing_, might be in terrible danger, and this guy is running his hands through her unmentionables? Gross. Just gross. If I ever met this guy I was gonna give him a piece of my mind. _Who does that? _

Cal spoke again, interrupting my thoughts. "I didn't go through her panties," he stated firmly. "There was a false bottom on the drawer. _That's_ where I found the book."

Another phone line voice added, "Tell them how you found the false bottom though." I could have sworn he sounded excited in a you're-gonna-get-in-trouble kind of way. He paused barely a moment before practically gushing the information himself. "He had to open the drawer! There was a little notch in the side of it that you can't even see when the drawer is closed. I bet he looked at the panties first though. I mean, who's ever accidentally opened a lingerie drawer and then _not_ gotten curious?"

"Tank?" Bobby put in. His comment was directly followed by the sound of fist meeting arm and a burst of laughter.

"What's in the book?" Carlos demanded, his voice cutting across the room. I could almost feel the mood shift from out here.

"It doesn't look good, Boss," Cal admitted.

It was with that remark that I decided to invite myself into their little conversation. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and announced loudly, "If you're going to talk about me and my mother, I'd appreciate it if you did so with me present. I may not be part of this company, but this is my life, my mother, and apparently her underwear, that is being discussed." The silence and shocked expressions that faced me told me that they hadn't been expecting my appearance. _Good_. I scanned their faces, noting they weren't quite meeting my gaze. When I reached Steph I noted the hazy look in her eyes as she yawned. There were slight wrinkles on her cheek like she'd had it pressed against fabric and she was leaning on Carlos's arm. She must have been asleep. No wonder she hadn't stepped in to defend my mother's dignity.

As I continued to stand there, some of the guys cleared their throats while others busied themselves shuffling papers and swiping at iPads. I'm pretty sure there was a whispered conversation coming from the other end of the phone connection. I was about to ask what was going on when Carlos spoke up, indicating to the seat on his other side and asking me to sit.

"We've gotten a report from Hal and Cal who are stationed at your residence," he explained, sounding very businesslike. There was almost no emotion about him at all. I had to wonder if this was what he was usually like, considering all I'd seen was an emotional train wreck and given the looks of the guys faces and the constant teasing, I was pretty sure that wasn't the norm. "They have discovered a book hidden in the false bottom of one of your mother's drawers." He held up a hand to stop me from interrupting so he could finish. "I don't approve of their actions anymore than you do, but we need to hear them out so we can assess the situation. This could be a major lead in the case."

"The case of what? Who's killing husbands and fathers in my home town? Or the case of what my mother is keeping from me?"

Steph, having apparently gotten up to speed on the situation now that she was awake and Carlos had explained what's-what, tried to placate me by explaining, "It could be either. Or both. Or even neither. We won't know until Hal and Cal explain what's inside."

Now that we were all on the same page and the guys had recovered somewhat from their shame, we all stared at the conference phone sitting in the middle of the table, waiting for it to speak. A long moment of silence followed before Carlos barked, "Well?"

"We're just taking pictures of each page so we can email them to you," one of the phone men explained. "So you have a visual, sir."

"You could explain what's in it while we're waiting," Tank pointed out. "We don't have all day."

*o*

Carlos eyed the girl he'd come to at least accept. He wasn't sure he respected her. They weren't quite at that point. But she was certainly proving that she was strong of will and logical of mind, both qualities that Carlos tended to hold above all others. If she could continue to prove herself Carlos felt sure that if she so chose there would be a place for her in the company. It was a shocking thought when he first realised it, but then he thought of how well his wife fit in at Rangeman and figured it wasn't such a stretch. For now, though, he needed to carefully monitor her reaction to the images now being projected on the screen.

It appeared to be a collection of blueprints, sketches and the occasional photo displaying the layout of a number of houses. In amongst these documents were diagrams and calculations of angles, distances, velocities. Carlos wasn't the greatest with math, but he knew the basic form of certain calculations and that knowledge was enough to instil a small amount of concern as to what this meant for Leah Hathwick and her involvement in the events they were currently investigating. If they found out that the blueprints belonged to the houses of the men who had been killed then things would be looking much worse for her.

Hank changed to a couple of images of handwritten "To Do" lists that included _clean knives_ and _burn bloodied clothes_ as part of their contents. Things were not looking up for Ms. Hathwick.

Once again averting his gaze to the woman's daughter, Carlos noted that her brow was furrowed and her breath was coming in short quick spurts. As he watched, she began to shake her head from side to side. Slowly. As if she was denying what her eyes were seeing.

"That's her handwriting," she murmured. "I should know, she writes my notes." She stared for only a moment more before abruptly turning to face Carlos. There was a fierceness in her eyes and the set of her jaw that was surprising. It took away any doubt that she fit in here. "What does this mean?" she asked sharply. "These notes and drawings and blueprints, what do they mean for my mom?"

He didn't speak straight away, not exactly sure what he should tell the teenager. It appeared to him that the images on the screen pointed toward Leah having some hand in the deaths of those men. They would have to do some research into the blueprints and photos to be sure. Just as he opened his mouth to tell Amabel as much, she spoke across him.

"No," she stated firmly. "No. My mother would never do something like that. She's not a killer. She's not a murderer. She wouldn't have killed those men." She took a sharp breath, her eyes widening with a sudden realisation. "She wouldn't have killed Dad. She loved him. They loved each other. She was so distraught when he died. She couldn't have done it." As she went on, it was almost as if she were pleading with him. Begging him to make the facts untrue. To laugh and slap his thigh and tell her it wasn't real.

That wasn't going to happen.

"I'm sorry, Amabel," he told her, reaching a hand out to place on her shoulder as a small show of comfort. "The evidence we have points that way, but we're going to double and triple check everything. If there is the slightest chance that your mother is innocent, we will find it."

"But until then we assume she's guilty, right?" Amabel asked bitterly. "Guilty until proven innocent?"

"We've got some leads and we're following up on them," Bobby announced from the other side of the table. "In the mean time, why don't you continue to try to get in contact with your mother. We want to be sure she's alright. She's still your mother even if she did do this."

Amabel rolled her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest and huffed out a breath. "That'd be a whole lot easier if my phone weren't dead," she said. "I don't have the charger. It was in my suitcase."

* * *

><p><em>Don't forget to review. I know you've probably got a heap of questions after that bombshell.<em>


	27. Chapter 27

_I [heart] epiphanies. I had one last Monday about a major plot flaw I had in the future of the story. I was sat at my computer trying desperately to work out who did what (I had a pretty good idea of what happened, but there were still a few kinks, which have now been worked out thanks to my epiphany. And with that rather ambiguous piece of information, I shall leave you to read this chapter._

**Chapter 27**

Lester stared at the phone on the table. It had been buzzing and chirping constantly for five minutes. They'd decided that it would be easiest to wait until it was finished receiving messages before they checked them, but he could tell that Mab was getting rather impatient with the constant stream of texts she was receiving. He couldn't blame her though. If they were lucky at least one of them would be from her mother and then they could use the information stored in the text to track where Leah was when she sent the text. That could lead us to where she was now, so that we could contact her and get the low down on the situation.

"It's still going off?" Bobby asked, plopping down on the couch beside him. "You're one popular woman," he commented to Mab.

"It just won't stop," she said forlornly. She was knelt on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, her hands flat on the shiny black surface on either side of the vibrating phone as she stared at it as if willing it to stop so she could retrieve her messages. "This isn't a good sign, is it?" she asked quietly.

Lester and Bobby exchanged a look, both wondering what they should tell her. There was no point scaring the girl if the texts were just from her friends, but then, it wasn't really advisable to assure her everything was fine and get her hopes up in case one of them contained fatal information. It was a hard decision to make, so they didn't make it. Lester finally assured her, "There's no use worrying about anything until you read the messages."

As if on cue, the phone went silent. For the first time since Amabel had turned it on, it wasn't making a noise or vibrating or anything. Hesitantly, she reached toward it, almost as if she would rather not see what was in those messages. She picked up and was just about to make her first swipe when it started playing a different tune. This was not the message tone Lester had grown accustomed to in the short time since plugging it in. Mab went completely still, staring at the object in her hand as if it was about to grow legs and eat her.

"Are you going to answer it?" Bobby asked, sitting forward a little on his cushion.

"I don't know the number," she explained, looking up at the two guys.

Lester followed Bobby's move and shuffled forward. "Do you want me to answer it?" he asked.

Mab shook her head, no. "I can do it," she assured him, taking a deep breath to steal herself for the worst, whatever that might be. She swiped the screen and brought it to her ear, greeting tentatively, "Hello?" There was a short pause while she listened, her brow alternately furrowing and flying up. "Th-thank you for letting me know," she stuttered eventually. Mab listened again then waved her hand about for a pen and paper. Bobby quickly grabbed the notebook and pen he kept in his cargo pocket and handed them to her, watching carefully as she scribbled something down. The moment she put the pen down he snatched it back and read what she'd written.

_Martin Hughes_

_609 – 123 – 7654_

_ ~ Derek Bane_

He held it up for Lester who immediately grabbed the iPad that had been left on the coffee table, starting up a search.

*o*

"That was a private investigator," I said numbly as I hung up the phone. "He's working the case of the men that have died in my town. He thinks he has the guy pegged, but the police don't believe him, so he's contacting all the wives." I paused, finally looking up from my phone to catch two quirked eyebrows as they silently asked the question I was expecting. "He thought I was Mom."

Bobby gave me a look that said he didn't believe that was true, but there was nothing I could do to convince him otherwise. I was just relaying the facts as I saw them. "How did he get your number?" he asked.

I shrugged. How was I supposed to know? I didn't know the guy; I couldn't provide insights into his processes. "I don't know," I confessed, feeling a little annoyed. "He's a PI. You seem all knowledgeable in the getting-information department, you tell me how he got it."

Lester nodded shortly, placing the iPad back on the table and standing up. "I'll go get Hank, Tank and Ranger," he announced. "In the meantime, why don't you check your messages?"

At his reminder, I abruptly looked down at my phone where the flashing message icon confirmed that I was still neglecting them. I can't believe I'd actually forgotten about them. Now that I was aware of them again though, I had mixed emotions about checking them. I wasn't sure I wanted to read what was in there. If they were from Soph and Carls, I wasn't sure I could keep up the charade that everything was fine, even in text form. There was a possibility that my mother was a killer. How was I supposed to carry on like normal with that hanging over my head? And what if the messages were from Mom herself? If being normal with my friends seemed a hard task right now, then playing nice with my mom appeared down-right impossible in my view.

I gasped out loud as a sudden thought occurred to me, bringing a torrent of burning tears to my eyes. "No," I breathed, pleading with my brain to be wrong. "God, please, no."

"What's wrong?" Bobby asked, sounding alarmed as he closed the distance between us. "Are you alright? What's happened?" He took my phone from my relaxed grip and scrutinised the screen, obviously thinking my reaction was caused by something in one of my messages. I hadn't even opened any, though. I could almost feel his concern growing as he crouched down beside me, trying to get me to meet his gaze. "Mab, talk to me."

Finally, I managed to blink away some of my tears and meet his eyes. "What if he's wrong?" I asked calmly. "What if Martin Hughes is wrong? What if this Derek guy isn't the killer? What if it _is_ my mom?" I took a deep shuddering breath, trying and failing to get my emotions in check. "That book is full of hand written notations that I _know_ were put there by her hand. That's her handwriting detailing the trajectory of an iron, Bobby. I know it is. If it's true... if it means what I think it means..." The tears started flowing again. "Bobby, she killed my Dad!" I wailed, unable to stay calm any longer. The facts and the connection my mind had made were overwhelming.

"It'll be okay," he assured me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and rubbing my upper arm. "We'll get to the bottom of this and sort it all out."

I don't know how long he held me and whispered reassuring phrases to me, but at some point the exhaustion and strain of the last couple of days must have caught up with me, because the next think I knew I was waking up in what was currently considered as my apartment. I felt sick in the stomach and as I stood to make my way to the bathroom there was a dull pressure in my head causing me to grimace and move much slower. After using the facilities, I splashed water on my face and steeled myself for when I looked in the mirror to assess the damage my crying jag, coupled with my apparent nap had done to my hair and face.

Groaning at the horrific sight reflected back at me, I wished I had just gotten in the shower straight off. My eyes were puffy and red rimmed, my nose red from constantly wiping the snot away and my lips were dry and cracked from the mouth-breathing my blocked nose necessitated. Don't even get me started on the rat's nest of hair and how it stuck up at all angles with a massive knot at the back. There was no way I could fix any of that without a shower, so I grabbed clean clothes from the dresser and stepped under the scalding hot spray, scrubbing just short of brutally at my skin, trying to deny everything that was happening to me.

I was dried, moisturised and dressed and about to deal with my hair, which was thankfully still wrapped in a towel, when there was a knock on the apartment door followed by the distinct sound of my phone ringing. Double checking that I was decent, I raced to the door, reefing it open to find Hank standing there.

"It started ringing again at about 1700 hours yesterday evening and continued until about 2200 hours when Bobby turned it to silent so the guys on nightshift could concentrate. We believe it may have received more calls and/or texts after that point, but the boss had us lock it in one of the safes. When I pulled it out to bring it up to you just now, I turned the ringer back on. I think you should answer it."

It took me a while to process what he was saying. The words "yesterday evening" stuck in my brain. Last I'd checked the time, it had been early afternoon. Surely it had only been a couple of hours. There was no way I could have possibly slept through the whole afternoon, evening _and_ night. As the phone stopped ringing, I glanced over my shoulder at the clock on the wall. It was quarter to seven.

"It's morning?" I asked uncertainly. "I slept straight through?"

"I'm afraid so," he confirmed as my phone started up again. He held it out to me.

"Hello, Amabel speaking," I greeted formally, out of habit.

"Oh, Amabel!" came a familiar voice. "Thank God! We were so worried."

I couldn't quite place the voice so I enquired, "Who's speaking pleas."

*o*

Carol felt like she was the tip of some mythical phone tree. A position she didn't like the feel of. All day yesterday she had tried desperately to either get in contact with someone who would be able to contact Amabel Hathwick with news of her mother, or someone who could give her a number so that she could do so herself. She was stressed out, tired and frazzled. Being a nurse, she was used to stressful situations, but this was beyond anything she had experienced in her career.

Her daughter hadn't answered her calls or texts until early evening, at which point she had provided her with the details of Amabel's mother and asked her to try to get in contact with the girl as well as give Carol Amabel's number so that she could also try.

Now, finally, after half an hour of constantly calling this morning, she'd made it through.

"Hello, Amabel speaking."

Never had Carol been so relieved to hear the girl's courteous greeting. Her breath whooshed out in relief. "Oh, Amabel!" she exclaimed. "Thank God! We were so worried." She plopped onto the couch she had been pacing in front of, her legs no longer able to hold her.

"Who's speaking, please," Amabel asked politely.

"Sweetie, it's Carol, Carla's Mom," she explained.

"Good Morning, Mrs. McEwan," she greeted, proving once again that she had excellent phone manners. "How are you?"

"I'm better now that I've got a hold of you," she replied. "I've been trying to contact you since yesterday morning."

"I'm sorry," she responded automatically. "My phone battery died and I didn't have the charger. I had to borrow one." There was a short pause during which Carol geared herself up for the task she had to complete, but before she could, Amabel spoke once more. "Is Carls alright?" she asked, sounding concerned.

"Yes," she said at once. "She's fine. And Sophie is too. It's about your Mom."

All at once, as if a switch were flicked inside her, she went from moderately calm and polite to completely panicked. The pitch and speed of her speech rose to such a degree that Carol struggled to keep up. "Omigord, you found her? Heard from her? Is she okay? Where is she? Why hasn't she returned any of my calls? Is she hurt? OMG! You're a nurse. I totally forgot! Please tell me she's okay!" A broken sob carried down the line, fairly wrenching the still beating heart from Carol's chest. The girl continued to cry too loudly for Carol to even attempt to be heard. She just waited for her to calm down enough to hear and understand. It probably wasn't the most compassionate course of action, allowing the girl too grieve for her mother before she even knew what was wrong, but Carol had learned that sometimes it was better to let them cry a little.

While she waited, she heard muffled voices in the background. She couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but they all sounded male and concerned.

"Mrs McEwan?" came one of the men's voices directly into her ear, letting her know that Amabel was no longer in possession of the phone. Carol was simultaneously relieved that Amabel was not alone and concerned that these might be the same men who had answered the landline at the Hathwick residence. She wasn't sure what was going on, but she hoped Amabel wasn't in trouble.

"Who is this?" Carol demanded.

"My name is Ricardo Carlos Manoso," he supplied willingly. "I own and operate a large scale security company in several states. My wife is an old friend of Leah Hathwick. Leah asked us to take care of Amabel while she took care of some business back in Minot."

That was a very thorough explanation, but Carol couldn't tell if it was a rehearsed cover story or not. A war raged within her as she tried to decide what to do.

"Where is Amabel now?" she finally asked instead of make the decision.

"She is on the couch of the apartment she is staying in while she is here in Trenton. My medic is keeping an eye on her in case she goes into shock."

_So they were taking care of her?_ Carol thought. It seemed she was being looked after if the medic was keeping an eye on her. "Did you say Trenton?" she asked as the words clicked in her head. "As in New Jersey?"

"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed. "I believe you have some news on Mrs. Hathwick?"

She'd been so distracted by making sure Amabel was in good hands that she'd almost forgotten the reason she was calling.

*o*

I was a little shocked at how quickly I'd gotten worked up over the phone call from Carls' mom, but figured I'd been holding a stack of emotion in over the past day or so to ensure the Rangemen wouldn't ask me any questions I didn't want to answer just yet. Once I realised I hadn't even heard the news she had about my mom it took me like, two seconds to calm down. Seriously. I went from a sobbing, hiccoughing, snotting mess to a puffy eyed, blocked nose less-of-a-mess-but-still-kinda-messy in the blink of an eye. By that time Carlos had already taken control of my phone and was talking very calmly, almost business-like with Mrs. McEwan. I couldn't quite hear the conversation, but as soon as he hung up he tossed the phone in my direction – it landed on the couch cushion beside me – and grabbed something from the closet by the door. He dumped the olive drab wad of material on the coffee table in front of me and just stood there until I met his eyes.

"What's this?" I asked, figuring I may as well start the conversation since he didn't seem to want to.

"It's called a duffle bag," he informed me, sounding almost sarcastic. "Put your clothes and other items in it, we're going on a trip."

Generally, when a big muscled man starts giving orders to pack up your stuff because he's taking you somewhere, there are one or two reactions that a woman can have. The first is waaaay to dirty for me to share, especially since he's old, married and creepy-emotional-mood-swingy. The other is to get worried. Am I going to disappear on this trip? If so, why is he getting me to pack my things? Just so that he doesn't have to get someone else to do it later? My mind was reeling with all the possibilities that had been put in my head by late night thriller and horror movies. This is where the guy invites you to his cabin in the woods and buries you alive, right?

He must have sensed my unease, because he came around the coffee table and sat down; taking my hands in his and rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs on my palms. "Your mother is in hospital, it appears she was mugged and left in an alley near the shopping centre your father's frozen yoghurt shop is located in. I know you're unsure of how to handle things with your mom given what we've found out in the last twenty-four hours, but you have the entire plane trip to figure it out and we will be there to help you. I hope you will continue to help us get to the bottom of this situation so that all our minds can be at ease once more."

I stared at him suspiciously, he'd come a long way from the guy who'd started interrogating me three days ago because he thought I was his wife's daughter. "Why do you want to help me so much?" I asked, challenging him. "What does it matter to you if we find out the truth or not."

Carlos travelled his gaze around the room slowly, so I followed his eyes to find that we were alone. That was weird. Seconds ago the room had been full of men. Finally his intense brown stare returned to my face, causing me to swallow hard. He could be truly intimidating. "You mean a lot," he stated simply, before going on. "To Steph. To my staff. You've gotten under their skin like only one other woman has. They want to see you happy and able to return to your normal life. And since my company works best when all my employees are satisfied that they are doing everything they can to fix a situation that has come to their attention, it's important to me to let them do this. We'll help you through this in any way we can."

* * *

><p><em>How's my driving? Send in reviews to hear what happens next.<em>


	28. Chapter 28

_Sorry it's taken so long to update over here. My thoughts were stolen away by other things. I have actually had a partial chapter done for some time now, but when you have two half scenes that barely go together, it's a little hard to call it a chapter. But it's here now._

**Chapter 28**

Private plane. Now there are two words I never thought I'd be able to associate with my life. I'd never been in first class before and here I was in a luxury aircraft with five muscled men, the woman who gave birth to me and my boyfriend. That's right, my boyfriend. David was the new intern at Rangeman and apparently Steph – I had to assume it was Steph – had managed to convince Carlos to include him in this trip. Something about me having someone my own age to talk to, or whatever. I so wasn't complaining. Right now, David had me caught in a friendly score battle on Temple Run to keep my mind off all the thoughts and uncertainties running through my head. He was winning. I kept forgetting to jump over tree trunks.

Meanwhile, the Rangemen, Carlos and Steph were in a huddle a short distance away, probably deciding how best to handle the situation. If I asked, they'd probably include us in the discussion, but for now, I was content to continually be eaten by the evil mutant monkey things that kept chasing me. Odds were they'd give me a briefing before we did anything anyway.

"So explain to me what the deal is with your mom?" David requested, looking over my shoulder as I began my run. That so wasn't fair. My scores were already in the toilet and now he was asking me questions while I was playing? Well I wasn't going to answer him. Unfortunately, that decision lasted about three seconds as I forgot to jump over a gap in the path and plummeted to my death. He took the game back for his turn and rephrased the question. "Last we spoke your mom was dragging you from Atlantic City to Trenton every day for meetings with security specialists – which I assume means Rangeman – and now we're on a flight back to your home town because she's in hospital?"

"That's about it," I replied shortly.

He wasn't taking that as full disclosure. It was like he was included in the trip simply to get me to talk about things, to get my thoughts and feelings out in the open. I wouldn't put it past Carlos to scheme such a thing. While I glared at the back of Carlos's head, David asked, "So what happened to your mom?"

"She was bashed," I said, which was true, but it still wasn't full disclosure.

As he continued to flick and slide his finger on the screen, thereby beating my score yet again, he mentioned, "I know you're hiding something. And I know the Rangemen aren't telling me everything either. But we'll get to the bottom of this. Whatever _this_ is."

"Thanks," I said, bumping shoulders with him and causing him to miss a slide and die. His score still wasn't as terrible as mine, but it wasn't a new high score for once, and I was happy about that. He mock glared at me, reluctantly handing over the device, but before I could start my turn Lester was standing over us. I hadn't seen him move. He was just _there_.

"We'll be landing soon," he said. "Ranger wants a word."

I promptly swung my chair around – oh my gosh, did I mention the chairs spin? It's like heaven on a plane! – to face him, waiting for his word. He met my gaze steadily, seeming to be searching for something in my eyes before he said, "The book doesn't exist." I raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for a further explanation. "As far as your mother is concerned, we don't know about the book Cal found," he said. "For all she knows, we heard she was in hospital and you insisted on coming to make sure she was alright."

"Which we are," I said.

"Yes," Bobby agreed. "But under no circumstances are we going let her know that we are suspicious of her."

I thought about that for a moment. It wasn't like I'd never kept anything from my mother, or pretended not to be mad at her for her benefit, but this seemed like such a massive scale. This wasn't the result of a petty argument about whether or not I could go to the party on the weekend. Nor was it keeping my failed test a secret. This was massive. Life changing. Potentially relationship degrading. And they wanted me to sit on it. To bite it back. To pretend it wasn't happening. That was gonna be hard.

"What are you thinking?" Steph asked, leaning a little closer and placing her hand on my knee.

I looked up from the hands I found myself staring at and met her eyes. "Mom may not be able to hide her lying, but that doesn't mean she can't tell when I'm lying."

"You're not lying to her," Steph assured me. "You're just not accusing her of anything."

"Yet."

*o*

Pain wracked her body as she slowly came awake. Her entire body ached like she'd been pummelled by a boulder. The memory of big, beefy fists beating her in the back alley flittered sluggishly through her head, and she figured she'd made a fairly accurate analogy. She kept her eyes closed, slowly taking inventory of her body, locating all the individual pains that screamed in perfect discord. It seemed that not one inch of her body was safe from the invading agony.

Having taken stock of all her injuries and decided that none of them seemed too bad, she started to think back over the events before she lost consciousness, trying to put things in order. She remembered clearly, the car explosion in New Jersey and fleeing before the dust had settled, just as she'd planned. Leaving Amabel in the care of Rangeman Security. She was safe there. Out of harm's way, and with Leah out of the picture, the housewives would most likely return to Minot to locate her. She'd been right, of course, and when she arrived home she found a message waiting for her on the machine, insisting on a meeting. Things were getting bad. They'd never contacted her at home before.

Of course she'd turned up to the meeting. God only knows what would have happened if she hadn't. Probably, she'd be dead right now. As it was she was pretty lucky to be alive. She could have died from complications caused by her injuries if someone hadn't found her in that alleyway.

She attempted to move into a more comfortable position, but the weight of the cast on her leg along with the weakness of the rest of her body meant that it was practically impossible to move.

"Try not to move, Mom."

Leah froze in her ever so slight movements at the sound of her daughter's voice. Thoughts ran through her head at a million miles an hour. How long had Amabel been back in town? Better yet, what did it mean that she was back in town? Was it a good thing or a bad thing? Who had contacted her? Had she come back on her own? Was she in danger?

"Amabel?" Leah croaked.

A hand lightly gripped hers. She recognised it immediately and forced her eyes open. "I'm right here," Amabel assured her, standing directly beside the bed so that Leah could see her face without having to move too much.

"How-," she tried, but Amabel shook her head, turning slightly before leaning in a little closer, a cup with a straw hanging out of it in her hand.

"Small sips," a deep voice reminded them from somewhere beyond her field of vision.

Her eyes widened at her daughter in both fear and question as she shied away from the straw. There was so much that could be wrong with the situation if that voice belonged to one of the hired thugs that had taken her out in the back ally. Nothing was safe. The water could be poisoned. They could be holding Amabel captive. Blackmailing them both into what they wanted. How could Stephanie have let this happen? Panic was starting to seize her body, making it harder to breathe.

Amabel's brows furrowed with worry, and she squeezed Leah's hand reassuringly. "It's okay," she said softly. "That's Bobby. He's the medic from Rangeman. He wouldn't try to hurt you. Just take a sip of the water."

Hesitantly, she wrapped her lips around the end of the straw, keeping her eyes locked on Amabel's for any change of expression. If she started to look concerned she wouldn't take a sip. Thankfully, her daughter's face remained smooth and calm as always, so she gave in to the urge to suck some cool water into her mouth. The relief was instant and soothing.

"What happened?" Amabel enquired, placing the water on the table nearby.

*o*

I watched as she swallowed a few times, her eyes darting around the room before she finally opened her mouth to reply. The tension building from the guys behind me was making the hairs on the back of my neck. There was so much riding on her reply. We would know immediately if she was lying, but she would know that we would know as well. So she was probably going to stick exactly to the truth, but problems arose in the form of not knowing how much she'd left out of her story.

Finally, Mom gulped and began her explanation. "I was at the mall and these two large men approached me. They asked for me to come with them and ushered me out a side door into an obscure alley." She paused, taking a slow breath to calm herself before continuing. "I lost track of how many times they hit me and threw me up against the wall," she informed me, her eyes going wide. "I never thought I'd be grateful to lose consciousness, but I was. They finally left me alone."

"To die in an alleyway," I pointed out, feeling the stress of the situation pummel me once again. My knees were getting week, so I pulled my chair closer and sat down, still holding Mom's hand. I looked over my shoulder to where Carlos and Bobby sat, out of sight of my mother. Lester and Hank were keeping guard outside the door as an added security measure. And Tank had taken Steph to my house serving the dual purpose of allowing Steph to have a lie down or rest while catching up with Hal and Cal's progress. I wasn't going to think about them at the moment; I was still peeved at them about my mother's underwear drawer. Before we'd split in the parking lot outside I'd told Tank to warn the panty sniffers to expect the wrath of a hormonal teenage girl. I'm not entirely sure they would take the threat seriously, but for sure they would never take it lightly again. I'd been planning out what I was going to say and do to them when I eventually met them and it wasn't going to be pretty.

But back to right now.

Carlos sent me a slight nod. I wasn't sure what he meant by it, but I took it to mean that I was doing okay, so I sucking in a breath asked the logical next question. "Did you know them? Why would they want to do such a thing to you? Have you spoken to the police?" Okay, so it was more like three questions, but once my mind seized on the first, the other two just tumbled out.

I glanced at the men out of the corner of my eye and noticed their approving blinks. I was acting appropriately for the time being. It wasn't hard. I was honestly curious as to who on earth would want to hurt my mother. As far as I was aware prior to this whole situation she'd never hurt anyone, and the jury was still out as to whether or not she'd hurt anyone. I'd taken Carlos's instructions completely to heart. It was the only way I could get through this. The book didn't exist. Mom was just Mom, not a killer or a suspected killer or any other variation of such. My questions were all born of concern for her wellbeing.

* * *

><p><em>Do drop me a line to let me know how I'm going, won't you? The review button it just there. Yes. That's it. You're hovering over it right this second. All you have to do is press down on the little clicker part of the mouse.<em>


	29. Chapter 29

_I promise I haven't forgotten about this story! Thank you for your patience._

**Chapter 29**

I tucked my iPod into my pocket as I stepped out of the SUV in my driveway. As the men trooped toward the front porch I took a moment to survey the street. Two houses down, Mr. Horace paused in the act of putting out his garbage cans to peer through his thick lenses at us. I waved a neighbourly hello to him and he beckoned me over. I glanced over at Carlos, still standing on the porch, waiting for me. He was staring down the street toward Mr. Horace, his usual unreadable expression on his face.

"I'll be right back," I called to Carlos, already halfway across the lawn. Sure, he was technically my guardian at the moment, if you squinted and turned your head to the side, but that didn't mean I was going to let him stop me from living my life as I saw fit. And right now, I needed to be neighbourly and let Mr. Horace know that everything is all right.

"Be careful," he called back, causing me to stop dead in my tracks. Did he seriously just say that? Just when I thought I had a handle on him he changed things up.

Turning back to face him briefly, I asked, "You're going to stand there and watch to make sure, aren't you?" He didn't reply, opting instead for raising a single eyebrow at me. He was infuriating. I rolled my eyes and made my way down the street to Mr. Horace, trying to think of a way to bring Carlos down a few notches. It's not like he was Superman or anything, he has weaknesses. I know because I've seen a couple of them. All I had to do was find a chink in the armour and irritate it. I was a teenager. Pretty sure irritation was my speciality.

Mr. Horace was stuffing one more bag of garbage into the bin when I approached. "Garbage night tonight," he reminded me briskly, wiping his hands on his faded jeans, like I couldn't have inferred as much from the fact that he was putting his bins out and the line of everyone else's bins along the curb. "Need me to help you clear out your fridge?"

"Thanks," I smiled. "I think I can handle it though. What's the goer?"

Mr. Horace was like a one person neighbourhood watch. He kept an eye on things when people were out of town. Made sure wives and children were looked after while husbands were on business trips. Overall, if you wanted or needed help, Mr. Horace was the man you were after. He was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five years old as far as I could tell, and had lived on the street for as long as I could remember. I'm pretty sure he'd been my babysitter a time or two when I was little and my parents couldn't find anyone else, but his thick glasses made Mom uncomfortable, so generally, she avoided him if she could. Dad had had less reservations about him, but still wasn't completely trusting. Personally, I didn't see what their problem was. He was just really short sighted.

"You've got a bunch of men in your house," he pointed out the obvious. "Everything okay?"

"They're getting there," I said vaguely. "The men are trustworthy. They're from Jersey, bunch of security experts."

His eyebrows rose up above his glasses as his eyes widened, looking cartoonish through the extreme magnification. I knew what he was going to ask before he even opened his mouth, but after spending a couple of days having most of my questions pre-empted – and tamping down on my frustrations – I let him voice it before answering. "What's going on, Mab? Does this have to do with your Dad?"

I was stunned at how he'd hit the nail on the head. How did we get from the here and now to six months ago so quickly? I answered his question with a question of my own. "Should it be about my Dad?" I asked.

"A guy named Hughes came around asking questions," Mr. Horace informed me. "It got me to thinking."

"About?"

"Things," he stated firmly. "Give me an hour or so to get my ducks in a row and I'll come round and discuss my thoughts with those men you've got." I nodded, unable to find a way to verbally respond. "You're sure they're trustworthy?"

Sending him a brief smirk, I responded lightly, "It doesn't matter what I say you're going to make your own judgement when you meet them."

*o*

Hal and Cal were roped to kitchen chairs by the time the other men arrived from the hospital with Amabel. It had been partially Steph's idea to have the pair tied up and ready to hand over to the girl, but Tank had been the one chuckling with glee as wrapped the heavy duty garden rope around them. Two hours ago. Now, he leaned against the counter, coffee cup in hand as he leered at the men. Lester, Bobby and Hank all filed in, following their keen sense of smell to the freshly brewed coffee, and stopped directly in front of the pair, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"We should see if there's any popcorn in the pantry," Lester commented.

Hank shook he head. "What we need is a video camera and a permanent marker."

Bobby sent a look down the line to the engineer. "Permanent marker?"

There was a twinkle in his eye as he explained, "I figured they needed to be labelled."

Stephanie followed her stomach into the room at that moment, brandishing her trusty Sharpie. "_Please_ let me do the honours!" she requested, attempting to snatching a coffee cup from the counter where Lester had been pouring. As always, she was just that little bit too slow as the men grabbed their cups and stood back. "Just a sip?" Steph pleaded, following after Lester as he backed away.

"Beautiful," he admonished gently. "You know it's not going to happen."

She sighed and pulled out a nearby chair so that she could sit and wait for the show while Tank went about seeing if he could find the makings for a hot chocolate for her. She was just about to ask where Carlos and Amabel were when she heard voices coming from the front of the house. It was a brief conversation, as was typical where Carlos was involved, and then the door was opening and determined footsteps came down the hall.

"They're in here!" Steph called gleefully as Hank fumbled to retrieve his smart phone from his pocket. "Ready and waiting."

Mab came into the room and immediately laid eyes on the two captives. It was hard to tell if she even realised anyone else was in the room as a hard mask fell over her usually open and friendly face. "You make me sick," she spat, stopping just a step or so into the room so that Carlos was left to lean against the doorjamb behind her. "What would even possess you to go through a woman's underwear when she's missing and possibly in danger?!"

"Utterly despicable," Lester agreed, smile beaming.

"What are you going to do to them?" Steph asked, twirling the sharpie through her fingers.

"We have a few suggestions if you're stuck," Bobby put in.

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><p><em>Hope to hear from you, thanks again for waiting so long!<em>


	30. Chapter 30

_No, this is not a trick of the light. This update really does exist. I bet a lot of people were losing hope on it though, thinking it may have gone the way of "All the Time in the World." But fear not, we are now a step closer to solving the mystery. Part of this chapter has actually been sitting there for months, but it just didn't seem to be working, so I had to add in a scene before it._

_Also, I have a secret project going on the side that I may start posting once this story is finished. Unless y'all want me to reveal all sooner._

**Chapter 30**

Mr. Horace sat at the dining room table with the camomile tea I'd brought him, eyeballing the men that surrounded him. Ordinarily, such an action wouldn't have come to my attention, but between his thick, extra magnifying glasses and my continued unease, it stuck out in my mind. He spared each man an equally long scrutiny until he reached the two pervs at the end of the table.

I'd taken great pleasure in labelling the pair as per Hank and Steph's suggestion. Hal, who claimed not to have physically done the panty sniffing, had "Perve 2" written in bold, permanent letter across his forehead. Cal, on the other hand, I'd had to be a little more creative with. His forehead space was already taken up by the hideous flaming skull tattoo. So instead, I'd settled for scrawling "Perv 1" approximately twenty times across his face and bald scalp.

I could understand why Mr. Horace would be a bit more wary of those two.

To get the ball rolling, I quickly introduced them all, leaving Steph and Carlos to last.

"Carlos Manoso," I mentioned gesturing to the man. "Though he prefers Ranger, from what I understand. And his wife, Stephanie." I paused, allowing Mr. Horace to catch up before adding, in what I hoped was a casual tone, "Stephanie gave birth to me."

Mr. Horace's bulbous eye blinked slowly. Once. Twice. He turned his gaze from the heavily pregnant woman back to me, a question evident in his expression. "You're adopted?" he asked.

"No," I assured him. "By all accounts, Stephanie is only my surrogate mother."

"Mab mentioned that you may have some information that may help in our investigation," Steph interjected, smoothly changing the subject. Clearly the topic was a still a little uncomfortable to discuss with others.

"That depends on what you're investigating," Mr. Horace responded coolly.

"Murder," Tank stated bluntly and we all watched the colour drain from his face.

Carlos, who's entire demeanour had made an almost complete turnaround from when I first met him to when we landed the plane earlier today, spoke up, effectively taking control of the conversation. "Why don't you just tell us what came to mind when Hughes came around asking questions?" he suggested.

"Okay," Mr. Horace agreed. "Though I must warn you, Mab, it may not paint your parents in a very good light."

I pressed my lips together in an effort to keep a hold on my emotions. They'd been up in the air ever since we'd come to the conclusion that Mom was in on something suspicious. At his words a lump hand formed in my throat and a tangle of squirming snakes had come alive in my stomach. If I wasn't careful I'd be sick before Mr. Horace even started, and something told me I needed to hear what he was going to say.

"Hughes asked how long I'd known Leah and James. How long I'd lived here. If I'd noticed any suspicious activity on the street prior to James's death,," Mr. Horace explained, maintaining direct eye contact with me as if he was trying to silently broadcast the apology I heard in his tone. "Automatically, I thought of all the nights I'd been unable to sleep. I'd taken to painting by the light cast into my living room from the street lamps."

There was nothing wrong with insomnia and keeping yourself occupied in the dead of night. I was surprised Mr. Horace painted, but I couldn't find a problem, so clearly the other shoe was yet to drop. I gestured for him to keep going, but drew my feet up onto the chair so I could wrap my arms around my knees. Usually the position provided at least a small amount of comfort, but today, as with the weeks after Dad died, it did nothing to quell my unease.

As Mr. Horace resumed speaking Steph shuffled her chair closer to mine and slipped her arm around my shoulders. It was meant as a show of support, I'm sure, but all it did was make me miss my parents – Dad in particular – all the more.

"Sitting next to the living room window, I had a perfect view of the street," Mr. Horace went on. "So it was hard for me not to notice when there was movement."

"Who was moving around in the middle of the night?" Lester prompted when Mr. Horace took an extended pause.

"More people than you would think. Lights turn on as people make their way to the bathroom or kitchen. People letting dogs out to do their business. Parents attending to the cries of their children. Sometimes the street is so busy that the only difference between day and night is the amount of light."

"What does this have to do with Mab's parents?" Hank urged, sounding a little impatient. I had to agree with him on that front. The longer it took to get to the information the tense I became.

"James would sometimes leave the house in the middle of the night," he said, avoiding my gaze now. "He'd walk out the front door, dressed in dark colours and carrying a gym bag, get in his car and drive off. A few hours later he'd return and pretty much go back to bed as far as I could tell."

A couple of the men looked toward me, like they expected me to say something, but I couldn't think of what it might be, nor would I have been able to get the words past the lump in my throat anyway.

Finally, Lester asked, "Did you know about your Dad's late night excursions, Mab?"

Shaking my head, I managed to clear my throat enough to say, "I'd hear him wandering around the house sometimes, but I thought he was just using the bathroom or getting a drink or something." After a moment of thought I added, "He used to stay up late crunching numbers and stuff for the shop, too."

"The froghurt place?" Perv 1 enquired. I nodded in response, refusing to even glance at the panty sniffer. I also didn't bother asking how he knew about it, I just figured either Lester had blabbed, or they had an extensive file on my whole family. Both were highly likely.

"Was there a pattern to his nightly activity?" Steph asked, squeezing my shoulder a little tighter. "Were they always on the same day of the week? The same day of the month?"

Now it was Mr. Horace's turn to shake his head. "Other than the fact that he always wore dark clothes and took the gym bag. They were completely random days as far as I could tell"

"You don't happen to have the dates he snuck out, do you?" Carlos asked.

The expression on his face and tone of his voice told me he too thought it was a long shot, however, where we differed is that I wouldn't even have thought to ask. I guess that's why he's the security expert and not me.

"Actually, I do," Mr. Horace announced, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket and sliding it across the table.

"You thought we might ask for a list of the dates James snuck out of the house in the middle of the night?" Hanke asked incredulously.

"How do you even have it?" Lester added.

"Hughes asked the same question. I had to go through my journal to find the dates for him, so I thought I'd write them out in case you needed them too."

No one said anything for a minute while Tank and Carlos reviewed the dates. After a long while, Carlos folded it over and stuck it in his own pocket.

"What about Leah?" he asked of Mr. Horace, laying his hands on the table. "Did she go on any late night drives with her husband?" As I listened to the conversation unfolding, I couldn't help but be grateful that they were avoiding relating Mom and Dad to me, referring to them by their given names, rather than "Mab's mom" or "Mab's Dad."

"Not until recently," Mr. Horace stated definitively, and pulled out another slip of paper. "I figure she has trouble sleeping since... ya know."

Since Dad died, he meant. I tried to not think about all the information he'd just laid out. Desperately tried not to shove the pieces into the puzzle of this mystery. It was looking pretty grim though. I wondered if Mr. Horace realised just how bad this picture he was painting looked.

*o*

I thought being back in my own bed would allow me to have the best night's rest I'd had since leaving a little over a week ago. I was wrong. There were a million different things playing on my mind. Not just that Mom was in the hospital and was possibly involved in a string of murders. But I could hear the men and Steph whispering down in the living room where they were all camped out. I was dying to know their thoughts on what Mr. Horace had told us, but they'd refused to let me in until they'd discussed it first, insisting that it had been a long day in a series of rather exhausting days and that I needed sleep.

Fat chance of that happening.

While they were all down there discussing things, getting things out in the open, and theorising, I was stuck in my own head with it all. After half an hour of lying silently on my bed, straining my ears to catch even the slightest sound I finally gave up, throwing on my dressing gown and padding down the hall and the stairs to the living room. I didn't even pause to listen before entering the room. It was, after all, my house. And my parents they were discussing.

No one looked up as I made my way to the fold out couch where Carlos sat with Steph's head on his thigh as she curled on her side beside him, her hand gently rubbing the swell of her stomach. I sat on the edge of the thin mattress and pulled my legs up to sit cross legged. I travelled my gaze around the room, taking in the men sprawled around the floor. Lester, Bobby, Tank, Hank, Perv One, Perv Two. They were all there, but I felt like something was missing. There should be someone else, right?

"Where's David?" I asked abruptly, interrupting the slow drawling voice of Hank as he reasoned out his latest point. I hadn't seen him since Carlos insisted he leave the room when Mr. Horace came in.

"He went out for Froghurt," Lester said easily.

"You let him go alone?!"

"Of course not," Tank assured me. "We sent-," he quickly glanced around the room, his gaze halting on Perve Two. "I thought I told you to go with David."

Perve Two crinkled his forehead in a frown. "I did," he said. "We got back, like, half an hour ago."

"So where is he?" I demanded.

"I'm right here," David's voice came from behind me as he entered the living room with two bowls of froghurt. Handing me one, he disappeared back into the hall and came back dragging my old bean bag – it had been stored in the hall closet for the last three years – setting it in the gap between the pullout and the armchair. He sank onto one half and gestured for me to join him, but Steph tugged me down onto the sofa beside her as she sat up, clasping me close to her side.

"I thought you'd gone to bed," she mentioned.

I shrugged and shoved a spoonful of froghurt into my mouth before saying, "I couldn't sleep."

"Neither could we," Bobby informed me. "We were discussing the case. I hope it wasn't our voices keeping you up. Hank and Lester have a tendency to get pretty loud when they're on the case."

Hank and Lester glared good naturedly at Bobby while I shook my head and took another bite, noting the way Steph's eyes followed my actions with wrapt attention. "Would you like some?" I asked, offering the spoon.

"No, that's okay," she replied, a slight smile on her face. "Carlos was just about to go get me a bowl of my own, weren't you dear?" she added with a wink in my direction.

To his credit, Carlos didn't even make a sound as he rose from the pull out and slunk from the room. That man was what Soph would call pussy whipped.

* * *

><p><em>Feedback appreciated.<em>


	31. Chapter 31

_This has been written for three days now, but finding time to actually sit down and type it up in my new crazy work schedule proved to be hell. Never mind though, cos it's here now. _

**Chapter 31**

"Right," Steph said, grabbing everyone's attention once she was settled with her bowl of froghurt. "What do we have? Thoughts, ideas, facts. Go. Wow me."

No one spoke for a long moment, and I could have sworn I heard crickets chirping from within the room, it was so silent. I looked from face to face, curious as to what had caused the sudden cease of chatter that seemed to have been almost constant since I met them all. No one was making eye contact with each other. Very suspicious.

"Report!" Carlos barked from Steph's other side where he had once again settled.

"Uh, well," Lester started, sitting up a little straighter and pulling the open file closer to himself on the coffee table. "Tank and I had a look at the dates Mr. Horace gave us..."

"And the dates of the men's deaths," Tank added. He, too, appeared nervous. I'd never seen him like this. He'd been stoic and confident every moment.

"Out with it," Carlos prompted impatiently.

Both Lester and Tank glanced ever so fleetingly in my direction. The others appeared to have developed a sudden interest in the carpet. The lump that had constricted my breathing earlier in the evening was back. I had a bad feeling about what they were about to say.

As if she too had come to a less than stellar conclusion, Steph handed her froghurt bowl to her husband and pulled me a little closer. I can't say I was complaining; I was suddenly feeling very lonely.

"The, uh, deaths always occurred the day after a late night excursion," Lester explained in a hushed, almost apologetic tone.

"Except one time," Tank pointed out, equally as quiet. "James snuck out of the house on Saturday night and death did not occur until Monday.

"Oh, God," Steph sobbed, clasping me firmly to her as she pressed her face into my hair. "I'm so sorry, honey. I'm so sorry."

I was too shocked to speak. My head was suddenly full of substance that seemed very similar to cotton candy. My ears were ringing. I stared at what I could see of Lester beyond Steph's encircling arms, but the view began to spin.

I knew this feeling. It was the exact same one I got every time I went on the extreme roller coaster at the amusement park. Every time. This knowledge alerted me that one of two things was about to happen: I was either going to throw up, or pass out. Or possibly both.

"I don't feel so good," I moaned as a warning.

Steph held me at arm's length and I vaguely registered her concerned and alarmed expression as my head lolled a bit but it was pretty much pushed from my mind as Bobby's voice penetrated the thick fog cushioning my brain.

"She's green," he said urgently. "Pass me that vase."

Next thing I knew a cool ceramic container was being held before me. "Do you feel like you need to vomit, Mab?" Bobby was asking. I knew he was talking to me, and I knew I should probably reply, but all I could get out was a groan, followed by a retch as the contents of my stomach suddenly made for the nearest exit.

"Oh, God," I heard Steph moan beside me. "Oh, I think I'm going to be sick as well."

I wanted to apologise, some vague part of my consciousness aware that it was probably the sight of me throwing up that had set her off, but an inky blackness was closing over me, drawing me under. It was all I could do to push the vase out of the way before I collapsed forward.

*o*

The next thing I knew, it was morning and I was waking up to the sun streaming throw my bedroom curtains and the bed dipping as someone sat down beside me.

"Mab?" Steph's voice asked uncertainly. "Are you awake?"

"Mmhmm," I moaned, stretching as I rolled onto my side to face her, cracking my eyes open just enough to see her through the haze of my lashes. "I'm sorry I made you sick last night," I apologised.

"It's not your fault," she assured me. "And I guess I have to get used to vomit anyway," she added with a slight smile as she rubbed her distended belly.

"I've been meaning to ask you," I yawned. "When are you due?"

Her smile got bigger. "Six weeks," she stated, excitement lighting up her eyes as she wiggled. "Six weeks until I no longer feel like a heffalump."

Curiosity took over then. I hadn't had much time, what with everything that had happened in the last week or so, to just talk to the woman who had carried me inside her for nine months. Now that we were alone and calm – however brief the respite might be – I had questions whirling in my head.

"Were you this big with me?" I asked, pushing myself into a seated position and ignoring the slight wave of dizziness that washed over me.

"No," she laughed. "Thank god. I didn't even really look pregnant until I was six months along. And even then it was only a small roundness. I finally popped about seven and half months, but even full term I was nowhere near this huge."

"And you just handed me straight over to Mom and Dad?" I paused, rethinking my question. "When I came out, I mean. Like, did you get to hold me or whatever?"

"Of course I did," she said. "But I wasn't the first. Your dad held you first. Then your mom. Then me."

"I thought they always gave the baby to the woman who gave birth first, since she went to all the trouble of like... ya know." I couldn't quite bring myself to say exactly what I'd been intending to end that sentence with, because of the mental image it gave me. In the brief second of silence that followed my words, though, I realised what I actually meant and that I was wrong. "They give the baby to the parents," I reminded myself. "And you were only my surrogate."

"That I was," Steph agreed. "But you were beautiful just the same. Still are, in fact. I hope my own daughter is as beautiful as you."

"You're having a girl?" I questioned.

She shook her head. "Carlos and I agreed that we would let it be a surprise, but he's convinced we're having girls. Plural. Did I mention I'm having twins?"

"I think I knew that," I nodded. "The men were discussing bets the other day."

Steph rolled her eyes and swiped a stray curl off her face. "Of course they have a pool," she muttered under her breath. "They bet on every aspect of my life why not my babies too?"

At that moment, a voice cleared in the doorway. "I'm not interrupting am I?" Bobby asked. I shook my head no and was relieved to find it absent of cotton candy. "How are you feeling this morning, Mab?"

"Fine," I assured him, wriggling about on the bed until I came to a seated position on the edge next to Steph. Proof that I was okay. "I just got a little overwhelm last night," I explained.

"Understandable," he assured me. "No headache or lingering nausea this morning."

"Just a little dizzy when I first woke up," I informed him. "I'm fine now."

"Then you should head down to the kitchen. Ranger has breakfast waiting for you. He wants to have a chat."

I gulped as Bobby turned and walked away, instinctively dreading a conversation with Carlos. All sorts of horribly scary situations. We didn't exactly have a great track record for getting along, or seeing eye to eye. I could only imagine how a conversation between us would go without someone there to intervene if necessary.

"Will you come with me?" I asked Steph.

She laughed again. "Of course! He's making pancakes!"

Once Steph and I were seated at the kitchen table with a stack of pancakes each, Carlos sat down opposite me.

"Judging by your reaction last night, I assume you made the same inference as we all did," he started as I chewed my first mouthful. "Given the evidence we've been presented with, we are inclined to believe that your parents were involved in a string of murders." He paused, waiting for my reaction, but I made none. "Upon closer inspection of the scrapbook recovered from your mother's room, along with the names, dates and other information we have acquired since beginning the investigation, we have come to the conclusion that your parents were contracted by a group of housewives whom frequent the shopping centre your father's frozen yoghurt shop was located in."

"A la Horrible Bosses, or Strangers on a Train," Steph chimed in with a full mouth. "Except instead of the housewives killing each other's husbands, they got your parents to."

"The scrapbook your mother had is comprised of blueprints we believe they used in order to plan the murders. Names were printed next to each floor plan, all coinsiding with the names of those who have recently died in horrible accidents either at home or at work," Carlos continued. "Except one." He paused again. "Hughes."

I dropped my knife and it clattered to the table as my jaw slackened. "You mean -."

"Yes, _that_ Hughes," Carlos confirmed.

"What about Dad?" I asked, suddenly. "Is his death related to all this?"

"Our theory is that Hughes somehow discovered what was going on and who was behind it and struck out before he could be struck down," Carlos explained. "Though we still need evidence to prove or disprove."

"I thought the women had nothing in common except when and where they grocery shopped," Steph commented. "How would Hughes have made the connection?"

"Maybe in the beginning," Carlos conceded, "But as you can imagine, events like that tend to draw people together. What started as a pact between strangers probably ended in friendship."

"So the people who attacked Mom," I prompted. "They were hired by these women? Why?"

"Because Hughes is still alive," Carlos said simply. "Perhaps there was a time constraint put on the contract."

I nodded that I understood, but couldn't help feeling very small. This whole situation just seemed to have exploded out of nowhere, dwarfing me and burying me in debris. It would be a miracle if I got out of it all intact. I wanted to go back in time and insist on going on my planned beach vacation with Soph and Carlz, that way none of this would be my problem right now.

"So what happens now?" I asked, laying down my cutlery, surprised to find that I'd finished the entire plate.

"We'll go see your Mom this morning," Carlos explained, "Give her the chance to explain her decisions to you and then we'll call the police. Your Mom will confess and I'll leave Tank to cover any liaising that is required at that point in order to get to the bottom of your father's death."

"What about me?" I asked timidly, aware that if Mom went to jail, which she most assuredly would if what Carlos had said was correct, I would be left without parents.

"Do you have any family that you could live with?" Steph asked. "An aunt? Uncle? Grandparents?"

"If you don't have anyone we'd be more than happy to find a place for you within our own family," Carlos offered.

"You would take me in?" I asked, stunned. I couldn't believe they would offer something like that. Two weeks ago we didn't even know each other and now they were willing to open up their lives to include me.

"Of course!" Steph exclaimed.

"Aren't you worried about -."

Carlos didn't let me finish. "There is no inheritable murder gene," he stated firmly. "If you don't want to be a murderer you won't be. Simple as that."

"Right..."

*o*

Two hours later, I watched dumbly from the corner of Mom's hospital room as she explained again for the benefit of the police officers that Dad had been the one contracted to eliminate the husbands of the women. According to her version of events, they crossed paths by chance in the parking lot of one of her clients' buildings. They'd then proceeded coincidentally to the same office and Dad begged her to turn around and go home. He'd eventually had to explain exactly why – he was setting up for the 'accidental' death of her client and couldn't risk her getting caught in the cross fire – and she'd insisting on staying to help.

For better or worse, she'd quoted when I asked why on earth she would do such a thing. She'd promised to be Dad's partner in all things, no matter what. And apparently that included murder.

Steph was seated beside me, holding my hand – which was shaking uncontrollably – to let me know that I wasn't alone. Carlos had beckoned one of the officers over while Mom was talking to the other two and asked what would happen to me in the very likely case that Mom would end up in jail.

The officer looked to Mom, then me before informing him, "Generally, minors are sent to live with next of kin. Failing that, they become a ward of the state."

"She's almost seventeen," he stated flatly. "Does she get a choice in the matter?"

"Given the current circumstances involving her mother, I would suggest she stay with family if at all possible," the officer explained. "Stability is key."

"I'd like to live with Steph and Carlos," I spoke up, figuring I may as well put my opinion in now while I had the chance.

"Are Steph and Carlos willing to open their home and their lives to you?" he asked me critically.

"More than willing," Steph announced. "She'd be in good hands. And we're practically family anyway."

"Then I'm sure the court will have no problem with it, provided Amabel's relatives make no protests."

In the end, Mom was handcuffed to the bed with a couple of guards outside her door. I was allowed a minute to say goodbye to her and assure her I would be alright, during which time Mom made Steph promise to keep me safe. I don't know if I was in shock or what, but I didn't cry as I left the room, I even felt a little calmer, lighter.

* * *

><p><em>Just one more update left. Why don't you let me know how you feel about that?<em>


	32. Epilogue

_Once again, this update was made to wait because of extra shifts at work. But it's here now. And so we come, as we inevitably must, to the end. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who's read along, and especially those who have reviewed. I still can't believe people actually read what I come with, so thank you all for keeping me going. _

**Epilogue**

As I sat in the back of my third college lecture for the day, trying desperately to resist pulling out my phone and texting a demand for an update on current events from one of the men, my mind began to wander. Like always, when I was stressed or anxious, my thoughts turned to the less than pleasant events involving my father's death and my mother's incarceration. It did nothing to put my mind at ease – in fact some days it made it worse – but acknowledging that I'd made it through tougher time helped me pull my strength together and dead with the situation at hand.

I hadn't seen my mother in a little over two years. Not since she'd confessed to murdering eight men in that hospital room. Carlos had refused to even consider letting me attend her trial, claiming that I'd experienced enough bad events connected to what my mother had done and any more would likely cause serious trauma. And rightly so. As it was, I was still attending monthly therapy sessions, trying to deal with the residual effects of those events.

I was fine for the most part. I mean, I _knew_ that my parent's choices, suggested that I might someday become just like them, but every now and then I'd let it get to me, triggering a panic attack.

The worst had been about six months ago.

I'd offered to babysit the twins for a night so that Steph and Carlos could have a night away together without worrying about Jasmine and Andrea. They'd hesitated, unsure if I could handle such a responsibility on my own, but when I assured them emphatically that I would be fine, and reminded them that I could have a full squad at the house in minutes should anything go wrong, and that Ella was just a phone call away if I had any difficulties as well, they'd finally agreed.

Everything was going swimmingly until it came time to put Jazz and Andy to bed. I knew their routine and what they could and could not have/do at bed time. I'd put them to bed hundreds of time. But that night was different.

Whether they were missing their parents – Steph and Carlos had spent barely an evening away from their little cherubs – or were acting up to see how much they could get away with in their absence, I wasn't sure, but they just would not settle.

I tried everything. All the little tricks I'd developed with them as well as the ones that usually worked for Steph and Carlos. And they were still screaming and running all over the house. After my third attempt to put them in their cribs, a sudden violent urge came over me. I was so angry and frustrated that every fibre in my being wanted to lash out and break something... or someone...

Andrea began to wail louder in my arms as I attempted to get my emotions under control and I realised that I was squeezing her tighter than I should have been.

In the next instant I had plonked them both in their cribs, backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving them screaming their lungs out. The sound of their distress cut me deep, but I couldn't trust myself. In that moment as I'd gripped the toddler I'd come to think of as my sister even if we weren't strictly related, what my parents were capable of had run through my head, bringing my greatest fear to the surface for the first time in months. The fear that I was capable of following in my parent's footsteps.

Panic set in.

Without even thinking about what I was doing, I'd locked myself in the bathroom and dialled Rangeman.

"What if, one day, something pushes me too far and I snap and kill someone?" I rushed out the moment Tank picked up. He wasn't my first choice, but it was better than talking to Hal Cal, whom I still didn't entirely trust, despite them proving time and time again that they were just as trustworthy as the rest of the men. On top of not being a creep, Tank seemed to understand my battle with my heritage and had even been helping me with what he liked to call 'coping techniques.' I preferred to refer to them as 'pure physical torture,' but that was beside the point. Tank was always there for me, even when I felt like I couldn't discuss my problems with Steph and Carlos. He was like an uncle.

"You are not your parents," Tank reminded me calmly.

"But, what if-," I started again, only to be cut off.

"Even if you were the spitting image of your parents – which you're not, if you recall – you need to remember that the crimes they committed were premeditated and carried out with no emotional involvement," he explained patiently. "At no point did they simply lash out in anger and take a life. And neither will you."

"But-," I tried to protest.

"No buts," he said firmly. "I don't believe you're capable of such violence. Now take a deep breath and tell me what brought this on."

"I squeezed Andrea until she screamed," I'd admitted on a sob. "I didn't mean to but they've been running around refusing to go to bed for the last hour and nothing I was doing worked and I just."

"We all get frustrated and do things we don't mean to," he assured me. "I once broke Carlos's nose because he was taunting me about a girl I was sweet on." After a pause he asked, "Where are the girls now?"

"In their room," I'd admitted mournfully. "I put them in their cribs and closed the door. I'm afraid to go back in there, but I can still hear them crying."

"I'll be there in five," he'd informed, and four and a half minutes later he was holding my shoulders in his big, beefy hands as he steered me down the hall to the girls' bedroom. Together we'd checked on the twins, who had miraculously settled down and were fast asleep, harm free. We then made our way down to Carlos's home gym to work through my lingering tension with his 'coping techniques.'

By the time I was physically exhausted, I felt a lot better and assured him I would be gine for the rest of the night. He'd nodded and left, but I'm pretty sure he camped out in the SUV two houses down just in case I needed him again, for which I was grateful.

I made no mention to the events of the night before when Steph and Carlos arrived home the next morning, and I can only assume Tank kept it to himself as well, since nobody brought it up. I did, however, resume my therapy sessions, which I had only given up the month before, to try work through the lingering issues I clearly had.

"Are you gonna sit there all day?" David asked, drawing me out of my reverie and alerting me to the fact that our classmates were already evacuating the lecture hall. I'd missed the entire class.

"Come on," he urged, grabbing my satchel and slinging it over his shoulder. "I know you're dying for an update."

Grinning, despite my less than pleasant thoughts of just a moment ago, I stood and followed him up the stairs and out into the crowded corridor. I knew there was no chance I'd be able to hear anyone on the other end of the phone line in the din, but as we pushed through the mass of people I was already dialling the control room.

"Has it happened, yet?" I demanded as David and I burst out into the open air.

"You called two hours ago," Hank responded on the other end of the connection. "Is your lecture even over yet?"

I glanced at my watch. "It finished early; we're on our way to the car as we speak. Has it happened yet?" I repeated.

"Don't you think we'd have at least texted you?" Hank said, sounding a touch hurt, even if he was chuckling.

Steph was due to give birth to Jazz and Andy's younger brother or sister literally any second now. She'd been having pains, irregular though they may be, for days now and last night after dinner had finally decided that they were close enough together to warrant heading to the hospital. I'd looked after the twins over night, waking at the slightest noise, thinking that it could be the phone rining to tell me that I had a new sibling, but when morning came with no news I'd dropped the twins at their grandparents' place and headed off to class. I'd been hoping Steph would have the baby during the night so that I could somehow justify skipping classes, but luck was not on my side.

"Knowing you pranksters, I would fully expect you to keep it from me until I demanded the information," I replied coolly. They'd been making fun of my eagerness all day as I'd called every chance I got. I hadn't really expected to be this excited about it, but I had money on them being born before midnight today.

"Nothing's happened yet," hank assured me at the same time a shout erupted in the background. "Hang on," he said, and I was left listening to muffled voices for a long moment. "Her waters broke," Hank informed me, back on the line. "She's being moved to the birthing suite."

My grin grew wider at this news. "Put Tank on," I requested.

"Do you really think that's wise?"

Tank and I had been eyeing each other off for days now. Tense. If the baby was born before midnight today I'd get the money from the betting pool. After midnight and it was Tank's. Neither of us wanted the other to win.

"Just put him on," I said.

"Mab," Tank greeted curtly, after a phone shuffle.

"Tank," I responded.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"They're moving her to the birthing suite," I gloated.

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, little girl," he seethed, probably through clenched teeth.

"I told you the baby would be born today," I reminded him, feigning innocence. "It's only four o'clock. Plenty of time."

"We'll see," he promised and hung up.

"I don't know why you taunt him," David said, shaking his head as we approached his car. "One of these days he's not going to go so easy on you on the gym mats. And you won't have to wonder why."

"He's fun to tease," I shrugged, sliding into the passenger seat. "Plus, I see it as my duty, since I'm thin only one he tolerates it from."

THE END

* * *

><p><em>Be sure to check out my other stories if you haven't done so already, and as always, I would love to hear you thoughts.<em>


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